


What are we living for

by lustig



Series: As Time Goes By [1]
Category: Casablanca (1942), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Casablanca Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Louis ships it, M/M, The Musketeers in supporting roles - Freeform, Touch-Starved, Various other characters in supporting roles, de Tréville (Jean-Armand du Peyrer) & Ana de Austria | Anne d’Autriche, de Tréville (Jean-Armand du Peyrer) & Ninon de Larroque, there'll be figs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-09 22:49:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12285885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Treville had hoped he would never see him again. Why, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, did he to walk into his?After leaving the court in disgrace Treville had build a new life in Casablanca, far away from France and the man he thought had loved him. But the world has a sick sense of humor and years later, they meet again - with Richelieu on the run and in dire need of help only his former lover can give.





	1. Part I: A Night to be Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> A big **THANK YOU** to my awesome betas [Bean](http://bean-about-townn.tumblr.com/) and [Kitsune](http://mangaddicted.wordpress.com/) and to the lovely [FreyaLor](https://freyalor.tumblr.com/) who gave me the confidence to actually start writing again.  
>   
>   
>  _ **Prof. Charles Xavier:** Eric, what are you doing here?_  
>  _ **Magneto:** Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?_  
>   
>   
> 

 

 

The Captain was no ordinary man. This was common knowledge.

 

He came to Casablanca about three years ago, carrying that deep blue coat and darkness in his eyes, in the company of the most beautiful woman the city has ever seen.

 

He fixed an old warehouse and turned it into an upscale nightclub, called _The Captain’s Garrison_ , where everyone with or without rank and name gathered and drank, gambled or bargained for the wildly sought-after visas and plane tickets for the journey to Lisbon and the States.

 

He tamed the wildest and most ruthless of the streetfighters and gave them a home at his side – Aramis the Spaniard, Porthos the Giant and the feline-like d’Artagnan.

 

The women – and not a few men either – tried to get a place at his side or himself in their beds. He reacted seldom and even then always refused. It never stopped them from trying, though.

 

 

 

Treville was a mystery to the citizen of Casablanca. In a city where slavery and human trafficking was still a normal profession, where women – especially beautiful ones – were treated like highly sought-after goods and the only safe place for someone like Anne was at the side of a strong protector, he never asked anything in return of her.

 

They only realised he had no relationship with his beautiful companion after The Spaniard fell so obviously in love with her.

 

 

 

Captain Athos de la Fère of the city watch was one of the people who profited most from this new citizen – he was there to pick up the pieces when yet another woman was turned down by the handsome but distant club owner and, upon realising that Treville actually followed the rules Athos had established for Casablanca, left him mostly alone.

 

The free booze probably didn’t hurt either.

 

 

 

The biggest difference between all those who were stranded in Casablanca and the Captain of the _Garrison_ was how he turned away every time one of the planes to Lisbon took off. Where there was yearning in the eyes of the travellers there was only coldness and bitterness in Treville’s.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

It was a night like any other in the _Garrison_.

 

The last plane had started about an hour ago while the city had been searched by Athos’ men. Two French couriers, directly sent by His Majesty King Gaston of France, had been found on the train from Oran – murdered.

 

Apparently they had documents with them, signed by the king himself, which allowed them – or anybody else who carried them – free passage without any questions asked throughout Europe and the colonies. Those papers had disappeared together with the murderer. It was believed that he fled to Casablanca to sell his valuable loot and Athos had acted accordingly and rounded up twice as many subjects as usual.

 

Two papers like this were worth a fortune. In times where every convicted supporter of the late King Louis was shot for high treason and people were stopped from leaving the country because they appeared on a list somewhere or the border guard just didn’t like their faces, any possibility to get a free and secure passage without questions asked seemed like a faraway dream or wishful thinking.

 

Yet there they were, stolen from the officials and now hidden somewhere in the dirty streets of Casablanca.

 

 

 

Treville had just refused another snobbish banker entrance to the backroom where the gamblers met, to the obvious delight of his doorkeeper Porthos, when Emile Bonnaire, who was one of the few who could get real visa for the right money, commented on his actions, looking quite distraught.

 

“You look like you’ve been doing this all your life, Captain,” he smiled, carefully looking behind him.

 

“What makes you think I haven’t?” In the main room they could hear Anne singing _Shine_. Treville didn’t even look up from the chess board in front of him.

 

“Nothing, really,” Bonnaire answered carefully. He gesticulated to the empty chair across from the Captain. “May I?” Without waiting for the confirming nod of the owner he sat down.

 

“When you first came to Casablanca, with your coat and the dear Queen of the Night I thought- Oh, never mind.” Treville looked up. “Horrible thing, what happened to those two French couriers, don’t you think?” Bonnaire twitched in his seat.

 

“I think they’re actually quite lucky. Yesterday they were just another two unnamed clerks, now they are fallen heroes.” The Captain answered carefully. He seemingly concentrated on his chess board again, closely watching his counterpart out of the corner of his eyes. He looked unhappy by this answer.

 

“You are a very cynical man, Captain.” The waitress came over and placed a drink in front of Bonnaire.

 

“Thank you, Constance. I’ll take another one.” He smiled at her, softer than the nervous smile for Treville, and turned back to the Captain. “Will you drink- oh, I forgot. You never drink with your guests.” He took a sip of the clear liquid and swirled the glass around, thoughtfully and staring into the distance. After one or two minutes the corners of his mouth twitched up and a fond expression stole itself on his face.

 

“You despise me, Captain, don’t you?”

 

“I probably would, if I gave you any thought,” Treville agreed.

 

“But why? Because of the business I do?” The shadow of a smile darted over the owners face. Bonnaire continued: “Don’t you ever think of all those poor souls who’d have to rot here if I didn’t help them? I provide them with their much-needed exit visas.” Trevilles eyebrows wandered up.

 

“For a price, Bonnaire. For a price.”

 

“I get it for them for half of Athos’ price. Is that so parasitic?”

 

Athos, as captain of the city watch and thus being the last instance of control if someone would be allowed to leave or not, had the power to acquire exit visas to Lisbon and the States.

 

The only other person with a similar power was the major of Casablanca – but he never made contact with the refugees. Bonnaire and the major were old friends – apparently Bonnaire had saved his life a few years back and to thank him for that the major gave him the right to sell a few visas every month, of course with a small fee on every sold one. If you were a political refugee of a little importance you _had_ to turn to Bonnaire for a visa.

 

Even Morocco being independent for more than a decade now didn’t change the fact that they were closely allied with the kingdom of France and Athos ultimately seemed to work for the French crown. He couldn’t help strong supporters of the late King Louis to escape to the Land of the Free.

 

 

 

“Anyway,” Bonnaire continued, “that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. Because after tonight I will be through with the whole business. And I’m leaving Casablanca, finally.” He looked behind him, again, a lot more careful this time. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a couple of papers with a broken seal. Treville recognised the French Lily instantly. He sat up a little straighter.

 

“Do you know what this is?” The former slave trader sounded giddy and exited. “This is something even you have never seen before. Letters of transit, signed by His Majesty, King Gaston of France himself, guaranteeing free passage without question for whoever is carrying them.” Without conscious thought Treville reached for the papers in Bonnaire’s hand.

 

“One moment. Tonight I will be selling those for more money than I ever dreamed of and you could ever imagine. And then, _addio_ Casablanca!” He gave in to the curious hunger in Treville’s eyes and offered him the documents.

 

“I have many friends in Casablanca. But because you despise me you are the only person I can trust. And because I know you are a man of honour.” He sighed. “Will you keep them for me, please? Not for long, maybe an hour, maybe a little more.”

 

“I don’t want them here overnight,” Treville answered coolly and put the offered papers into his coat. Bonnaire smiled again, relieved this time. “Of course not. Don’t be afraid of that. And thank you. I knew I could trust you!” He stood up, new vigour in his step.

 

“Constance, I’m expecting some people. If anybody asks for me, I’ll be at the roulette table.” He turned back to Treville once again and, sounding far too pleased, asked: “Captain, I hope you’re more impressed with me now.” Treville’s answering smile was close to feral.

 

“I heard that the murdered couriers carried papers with them, bearing the sigil of King Gaston.” Bonnaire looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Oh, I’ve heard that rumour too,” he stuttered, “Poor devils.” He gulped, eyes wide. Treville turned away, back to his board.

 

“You’re right, Bonnaire,” he rumbled, still carrying that feral smile, “I am a little more impressed with you now.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

The audience was in awe of Anne’s beautiful voice and artful piano playing. They sang with great enthusiasm the answering parts of _Knock on Wood_ with the Big Band. Treville strolled through the already well-filled club to his long-time companion and protégé, listened for a moment and, as soon as the spotlight was on the singing patrons again, he hid Bonnaire’s visa under the lid of the piano.

 

He continued his walk to the front table where the reservations where listed and skipped over the schedule, pleased by the amount of people he found there, recognising quite a few. The club had performed well in the past few weeks, always filled to the brim with guests.

 

Before he could finish, he saw Ninon coming in and taking her regular place, in the company of two of her girls. She was one of the few people here in Casablanca he genuinely liked. The former Comtesse de Larroque, now running a café and salon known as _Minerva’s_ , fought for the rights of women, and gave them a chance to get a good education instead of the life as an uneducated housewife or prostitute.

 

If you were a male club owner in the city, you usually had a couple of male friends. But Ninon held the hearts of _all_ the women in Casablanca.

 

 

 

She smiled at him when she realised he had noticed her and came over, just as the music ended. Her gaze scanned over his usual coat and she nodded, softly.

 

“You look well tonight, Captain.” Her clear blue eyes found his, hardened by her everyday work yet still calm and so very confident.

 

“As do you, Ninon.” She did. Her luxurious blonde hair was made in complex braids and her dress – creamy-white – caressed her body in all the right places. She held herself like a woman who knew exactly which effect she caused on most of the men that surrounded her. She probably did.

 

“How’s business in your salon?”

 

“Fine, but I’d like to buy out Anne.”

 

“You know very well that I don’t deal in human beings – much less women under my protection.”

 

“Too bad.” She smiled, pleased and a little amused. “In giving these women a chance to take their life in their own hands we can create a much stronger society. They only need education and a little courage. Together we could turn the government of Casablanca, with a force no one can possibly stop.” Treville smirked at her words, an old argument of them.

 

“What about you run your business and let me run mine.” Ninon tilted her head thoughtfully. “What about asking Anne. Maybe she’d like to come to _Minerva’s_.”

 

“I suppose we can.” Together they strolled over to the Queen of the Night, Ninon with a soft sigh and the words: “My dear Captain, when will you realise that in today’s world you have to think modern to keep up with all the changes happening?” Treville ignored her.

 

“Anne,” he called when they reached his lead entertainer, “Ninon wants you to go and help her with her work at _Minerva’s_.”

 

“Thank you, Captain, Comtesse. But I like it here very much.” Anne smiled, a little shy but not unkind.

 

“She’ll double what I pay you.” This time a soft laugh escaped the Spanish beauty. “I can’t even spend what I make here, what should I do with even more money?” She gave Ninon another smile, warmer than the last, and turned back to concentrate on the soft tinkling, one of her own compositions.

 

Treville and the Comtesse looked at each other, the Captain more self-satisfied than apologetic, and the other owner gracefully accepted her defeat and excused herself with a small curtsy.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

 “Here, from the boss’s private stock, for the most beautiful woman around. Besides Constance and Anne, of course.”

 

“Oh, shut up.” Milady de Winter gulped the whole drink down, and rolled her eyes. D’Artagnan beamed at her, not affected in the least by her brusque dismissal.

 

“All right, all right. For you I shut up. Because, Milady –“

Constance appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, balancing a tray of empty glasses and bottles. Her gaze swept over the other woman disapprovingly and she frowned at the young Gascon behind the counter.

 

“D’Artagnan, did you prepare the drinks –“

 

In an elegant move he jumped over the counter, took the tray off her and swept her in a sweet embrace.

 

“Yes, my love. They’re all ready. Just waiting for you to pick them up.” His smile turned cocky as he stole as kiss from his co-worker and wife.

 

“Cheeky”, she murmured but accepted the affectionate gesture.

 

“Ahem,” a deep and melodious voice cleared their throat behind them. With a guilty look the young bartender got back behind the counter, and prepared the usual drink of Captain de la Fère.

 

 

 

“Where were you last night?” Milady asked Athos quietly, after Constance had disappeared in the crowd again.

 

He didn’t even look at her while answering “I don’t remember. Too long ago.” The fair beauty looked resigned and a little lost, but tried once again: “Will I see you tonight?” He still refused to look at her, downing his drink.

 

“I don’t plan that far ahead.”

 

Hurt, she turned to d’Artagnan behind the counter. “Give me another drink.”

 

“She’s had enough”, Treville, walking up behind them, interrupted. He settled on a stool next to Athos. “Call her a cab, d’Artagnan. Or walk her home. But come right back, you hear me?” Milady threw a dirty look in the direction of the captains but followed d’Artagnan when he offered her her coat.

 

Treville and Athos watched the pair leaving.

 

“You shouldn’t send her off like this, you know? She genuinely likes you.”

 

“She betrayed me. If I can’t trust her, her affections are useless.” He turned his now-empty glass in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully. The unruly hair fell into his calculating green eyes when he suddenly looked up, straight into Treville’s blue ones.

 

“There will be some excitement here tonight, Treville. An arrest.” Treville wasn’t fazed by the news. He merely sighed: “Again?” and turned around, letting his gaze sweep over his guests. Athos nodded.

 

“No ordinary arrest, though. A murderer. Don’t help him.”

 

“You know I won’t. You do your work, I do mine. As long as you don’t shoot one of my uninvolved guests – again – you can do whatever you want and need to do.” Treville started to stand up and move away when Athos spoke yet again: “An important guest will come here, tonight. Comte de Rochefort, favourite of His Majesty, King Gaston of France. He was appointed as new First Minister a few days ago.”

 

Aramis approached the two Captains, looking unhappy.

 

“We will make the arrest after his arrival. A little demonstration of our efficiency. He needs to be taught that his Red Guard can’t achieve everything,” Athos finished derogatory.

 

“Captain?” the Spaniard asked, “One of the customers just won twenty thousand francs – the cashier needs a little money.” Treville stood, as did Athos, and answered with a grimace: “I’ll get it from the safe, come with me.” Together they strolled to the private rooms of the Captain, upstairs just between the bar and the stage. He gave the money to his croupier and turned back to Athos, who hadn’t moved from his side, looking down at the bustling club thoughtfully.

 

“Come on, Athos. Spill it. What is the real reason Rochefort is coming here tonight.” To his credit Captain de la Fère didn’t even squirm under the piercing gaze of Treville.

 

“ _The Captain’s Garrison_ is the place where most exit visas are sold, in all of Casablanca. Yet I know you never sold one, that’s the reason we permit you to remain open while so many other cafes have been forcefully shut down.” He looked up, away from the people and back to Treville. “There are rumours that a man arrived in Casablanca on his way to the States who will offer a fortune to anyone who can acquire him an exit visa.”

 

“Hm.” Treville turned around, pouring a cognac into one of the glasses on the small table and offered it to his guest. The other captain nodded him thanks and took it. “What’s his name?” he asked after a moment or two.

 

Swirling the ember liquid around and watching the light playing inside the glass, Athos murmured: “Louis XIII, whom they call the Last True Bourbon.”

 

“Louis Bourbon?” Athos looked up, a faint smile on his face.

 

“Treville, this must be the first time I have actually seen you impressed.” The older man scoffed and turned away. Only the urgency in Athos’ voice stopped him from leaving when he continued: “It is my duty to ensure that he stays in Casablanca. He must never reach America.” A dry laugh escaped Treville.

 

“It’ll be interesting to see how he manages his escape.”

 

“I just told you –“

 

“Captain, he escaped from the Bastille under the eyes of his guards, the Red Guard chased him all over France. He was hanged on some private estate, shot during another escape attempt and drowned in the Rhône near Lyon. I’m sorry that I _do not_ believe you, your guards or anybody else will be able to stop him here in Casablanca.”

 

“We will. This is where the chase ends.”

 

“Twenty thousand francs that it doesn’t.” Athos searched his face for any indication that he was joking.

 

“You actually mean that.”

 

“I just lost twenty thousand; I’d like to get them back.”

 

“Ten. I’m only a poor captain.” Treville scoffed again. “Fine. Ten.”

 

Together they looked down into the well-filled room, both silent for a moment. Athos downed the rest of his cognac and started to step down again. After only two stairs he turned around one last time and smiled his thin smile at the other Captain.

 

“No matter how lucky he is, he still needs two exit visas.”

 

“Why two?”

 

“He’s travelling in company.”

 

“He’ll take one.”

 

“I don’t think so. His companion could probably be described as his guardian angel. He’s the man who got him out of the Bastille. And if they did not separate in Marseilles or Oran they certainly won’t do it here in Casablanca.”

 

“Maybe, this close to his journey’s end, he won’t be as dependent on this guardian angel of his as you might think.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, Treville. He won’t get a visa. Not from anyone and not from you.”

 

“Why should I help him?”

 

“Because once upon a time, my dear Treville, you were captain of his palace guard. I don’t know what made you leave back then, but under this cynical shell of yours you’re a good man. _Fidelis et fortis_ , wasn’t it? Loyalty and strength. I’m familiar with your record. And you just bet ten thousand francs that he _would_ get away.” Athos shrugged, still smiling, and turned around just as one of his officers saluted him and informed the captain of the city watch about the arrival of Comte de Rochefort.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Athos did most certainly not rush down to meet the French Comte. On his way over to Rochefort he stopped Constance, telling her to give the special guest the best place of the club. He only got an amused smile and the answer: “I already gave him the best. Near the ladies. He would not accept anything less. He’s the favourite of King Gaston, after all.” Her tone implied how silly she thought his question and, a little embarrassed, the Captain let her be.

 

Before greeting the new guest Athos turned to one of the guards who’d come with him to _The Captain’s Garrison_ tonight. The show was about to start.

 

“Position two guards at every door. Quietly. We don’t want a recurrence of the last arrest, do we?” He nearly growled the last words, the young guard in front of him gulped heavily, saluted with a sharp “Yessir” and stumbled away, obviously eager to get his duty done and as far away from Captain de la Fère as possible.

 

Pleased, he made his way over to the First Minister of France.

 

 

 

The Comte was no man of great impression. At least not on the first look. Dirty blonde hair, not very tall or bulky, more of an everyday face than an aristocratic one. His eyes, however…The right one icy blue and angry, the left hidden behind an eyepatch. A farewell gift from King Louis, malicious rumours said.

 

Anyone who came near the Comte could feel the danger he radiated. Every movement, every word, every look told people that he was a force to be reckoned with. He was one of the driving forces behind Gaston’s successful sacking of the French throne. He was also the one who had killed Louis pregnant wife Charlotte in cold blood. He was a man you definitely didn’t want as an enemy if you valued your life even the slightest.

 

Athos knew all of this as he approached the table where the First Minister of France sat, together with Labarge, captain of his personal guard.

 

“Good evening, gentlemen”, he greeted the two Frenchmen politely.

 

“Good evening, Captain. Won’t you join us?” It was more an order than a request, and Athos de la Fère took the offered seat without a moment’s hesitation.

 

“Thank you, Comte. It’s a pleasure to have you here.” Rochefort scoffed and smiled a toothy smile at the dark-haired man.

 

“We both know that’s a lie, Captain. You despise me.” He leaned forwards. “I can read it in your eyes. Smell it on your clothes. You practically stink of it.”

 

“May I recommend the Chateau Latour ‘29?” Athos answered, unfazed by the aggressive display, “A very good French wine, they say it’s even served at the Louvres.”

 

Rochefort moved back again and practically slouched into his chair. “Very well. If they say so. It’s probably the wine the lesser servants get to see, nothing special, though.” His eyes wandered around the room, stopping for a moment on Anne before settling back on the captain of the city watch.

 

“So, why have you asked me to come here tonight? I hate to waste time, especially on useless amusements like sitting around in some random night club like this.” He wrinkled his nose in an arrogant display of disdain.

 

“In a few minutes you will see the arrest of the man who murdered the French couriers.”

 

“I expected nothing less, Captain. If you already know who it is, I cannot for the life of mine think of any reason why you have waited until now to put him behind bars.”

 

“Like you we like the public to know of our power. This display, tonight at the _Garrison_ , will show Casablanca’s citizen once again that the city watch does not sleep, Comte.” His words came out sharper than intended and a self-satisfied smile appeared on Rochefort’s face.

 

“You’re wrong, dear Captain. I don’t do displays like this in public. The imagination of what might have happened is a lot more dangerous than your little gambling. But I will leave you with your false impressions. When will the show begin?”

 

Just after finishing this last sentence sudden gun shots could be heard, and the frightened screaming of women followed shortly thereafter. A man stumbled through the doors of the gambling area into the main room, hair and clothes in disarray, a smoking pistol in his hand. His eyes were snapping around wildly, wide opened and full of fear. He turned around in a futile search to find a safe escape route and finally settled on the muscular frame of Treville.

 

In a last desperate attempt, he rushed over to the owner of the club and found himself pinned against the wall instead of on his way to safety.

 

“You have to help me, Captain,” he pleaded, trembling of fear under the indifferent gaze of the older man. “Please, Captain, help me!”

 

“Don’t be an idiot, Bonnaire. You can’t get away.” Trevilles grip on him was secure and, under the incredulous stare of the former slave-trader, two officers of the watch came and took him away. For one last time he screamed for the owner before he was subdued and carried away. Treville had a feeling that he wouldn’t see Bonnaire again, not in this life.

 

He stepped forward, away from the wall he just pinned the fleeing Bonnaire against and shouted: “I’m sorry for the disturbance, but it’s all over now. Sit down, have a good time, enjoy yourselves. Everything is all right and completely under control!”

 

He stepped through the still stunned auditorium to the stage and nodded in request to Anne and the band. They instantly started playing another song – _Pinch Me_ , if Treville remembered correctly – and the guests settled down again, somewhat calmer than before, but the chatter rose again. It wasn’t the first arrest in the _Garrison_ by far.

 

 

 

“Well done, Captain,” Rochefort sneered at Athos after the screaming Bonnaire was silenced and carried away. Athos followed his departure with a frown on his face, when the owner happened to walk pass.

 

“Treville!” he called and, upon being sure the other man’s attention, stood up and introduced the other two men at the table: “Treville, this is the Comte de Rochefort, First Minister of France and direct envoy of His Majesty, King Gaston of France and the captain of his Red Guard, Labarge.”

 

Treville nodded curtly and was already turning away again, when Rochefort called him back, a sickeningly sweet tone to his voice: “Wait there a moment, Captain, and join us. Please.” Clearly hesitating the old captain reached for another chair and sat down, shoulders and spine rigid. Rochefort watched him like a predator ready to pounce.

 

“Can I ask you a few questions, Captain? Unofficially, of course.” Treville nodded carefully, watching Rochefort with the same sharp attention the other man gave him.

 

“I understand you came here from Paris at the time of Marie de Medici’s last attempt to reclaim the throne.”

 

“That is no secret, Comte.”

 

“Are you one of those people who cannot imagine another person than the overthrown Louis on the throne of their beloved France?” Treville’s features hardened, his eyes dangerous and dark.

 

“It’s not particularly my _beloved_ France. If you will excuse me?” He stood up, posture rigid and carefully controlled.

 

“One moment, Captain.” Rochefort smiled aggressively. “We have a complete dossier on you. We also know what you did in Paris and why you left. Don’t worry, we’re not going to broadcast it.”

 

“Is this you trying to threaten me?”

 

“Oh, no. In no way, dear Captain. It’s just that a very dangerous man – an enemy of France – has come to Casablanca. And we are checking up on anybody who might be of help to us.”

 

“My interest in Louis Bourbon’s stay in Casablanca is of a purely sporting nature,” the owner said dismissively, but with still carefully controlled features.

 

“You want to tell me you have no sympathy for this fugitive?”

 

“You have a whole dossier on me. You know the reason why I left Paris. So, you tell me.” He gave Rochefort one long, hard stare, turned around and left. The eyes of the men at the table followed him on his way to the backroom.

 

“You see?” Athos threw in, carefully, “You have nothing to worry about Treville. He’s a man of principles.”

 

“That’s exactly what I fear.” Rochefort sighed.

 

“If your implication is true, that he really has a personal motive against Louis Bourbon, then you can trust his word – he won’t interfere in any way.”

 

“Perhaps.” They both turned their heads towards the main entrance.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Louis seemed a lot less concerned than Richelieu would like him to be when they stepped into the _Garrison_ , a night club the receptionist of their hotel had recommended them. Constant chattering could be heard over the sweet piano music.

 

“Messieurs?” While the former First Minister of France scanned the room with sharp eyes a waitress had approached the pair, dark hair and kind eyes. Louis answered with this wide smile of his and told her they had reserved, yes, Bourbon the name. His smile got even wider when she seemed to realise who it was in front of her, delight clear on her face.

 

“Yes, Your Highness, right this way, please.” She led them to a cosy table, the wall at their backs and a wooden screen to their left, so as not to disturb them by the turbulent folks that spend their time in the club.

 

“I have not seen anyone of Bonnaire’s description, my dear Cardinal,” Louis said after ordering a fine red wine for the both of them. Richelieu stared back at the way they came, a confused frown on his face. The piano player, a young woman with noble features and fine blonde hair, seemed frighteningly familiar to him. He just couldn’t put his fingers on why she did. But it woke an uneasy feeling in his chest, a dangerous burning he couldn’t and did not want to ignore.

 

“I feel like we should not stay here, Your Majesty.”

 

“Don’t you always tell me to mingle with the common folk so as not to catch any attention? We should stay for at least a little while longer, everything else would seem suspicious, don’t you think?”

 

Richelieu gnashed his teeth but nodded carefully. He did tell his king not to wake any attention. He should listen to his own advice. But every moment he spent here he could feel himself getting more and more anxious. He had missed something, something important about the lady at the piano.

 

“Cardinal, you are not paying any attention. Have you seen anyone of Bonnaire’s description already?”

 

Richelieu gave his king an apologetic smile.

 

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I was caught in my own thoughts.”

 

“I could see that,” Louis laughed.

 

“Perhaps Bonnaire is in some other part of the club. Shall I go and ask for him?” he continued placatory. Before he could follow Louis’ pleased consent, a man approached them. He was tall, with a well-trained and muscular frame, his hair a wild riot of ebony curls and fiery eyes. Before speaking he threw a look around, making sure no one was listening in. Richelieu didn’t like him.

 

“Pardon, gentlemen, but y-you look like you’re on your way to America.”

 

“We are”, the former king of France answered before Richelieu could tell him otherwise.

 

“Perhaps you’ll find a market there for this ring, I’m forced to sell it at a –“

 

“We’re not interested, monsieur. Thank you for your time”, the Cardinal interrupted him coldly.

 

“Yes we are”, Louis disagreed and, throwing a pleading glance to his guardian, added: “Please, Armand. Just one look. It’s only a ring.”

 

The stranger, watching this short exchange and clearly realising that Richelieu would not stop his pleading king, he whispered: “It’s really quite unique,” and opened the lid of his ring, revealing a delicate French Lily. At Louis delightfully widened eyes the Cardinal gesticulated to the third, empty chair and invited the stranger to sit down.

 

“What is your name?” he asked brusquely.

 

“Toiras. Jean Caylar, former general of the French Armies, at your service. It is a great honour to see you, Majesty, Y-your Eminence.”

 

“Louis,” the Cardinal whispered warningly. From his place he could see the captain of the city watch, if he remembered the insignia on this man’s uniform correctly, coming closer.

 

“We are not interested in your ring, sorry,” Richelieu said louder while Louis mouthed “I’ll meet you at the bar, in a few minutes” to their obviously disappointed guest.

 

“Too bad. B-but if this is your answer, s-so be it. If you’ll excuse me.” He disappeared as fast as he had approached them in the first place.

 

“Louis Bourbon, if I’m not mistaken?” the captain greeted them. His voice was unexpectedly pleasant, and a small and amused wrinkle formed around his eyes when he realised that the Cardinal was watching him closely, sharply.

 

“Yes?” The former king of France sounded subdued, but determined not to let himself be oppressed.

 

“I am Captain de la Fère, of the City Watch. I wanted to welcome you to Casablanca and to wish you a pleasant stay. We do not often have visitors as… distinguished as you are.”

 

“Thank you,” Louis answered carefully and added, like an afterthought: “You will forgive me but the present administrations of many cities allied with France have not been as cordial as you seem to be.” The captain lowered his head, and even tried to look a little apologetic. It didn’t work as well as he had probably hoped, not under the grim stare of the Cardinal.

 

“Oh, and may I present you his Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu? My travelling companion, so to say.”

 

De la Fère nodded at him gracefully and turned to leave but was stopped by the dark-haired aristocrat: “Won’t you join us for a moment, Captain?”

 

“If this is your wish, I certainly will.” He took the chair Toiras sat in mere moments ago when the waitress came with their wine. Richelieu swirled the dark red liquid around in his glass until his curiosity got the better of him.

 

“Captain?” he drawled. “Who is the lady playing the piano? I’ve seen her before, somewhere.” He took a small sip and watched the other man closely. He didn’t seem fazed by his question in the slightest and instead ordered another drink for himself.

 

“You mean Anne, I guess?”

 

“Anne, Yes.”

 

“She came here with Treville, from Paris, about three years ago.”

 

It took every ounce of his well-taught self-control not to drop or spill his drink. Anne. French name for a French lady. But she didn’t look French. Spanish, maybe. So, Ana, more likely. Fled in the anti-Spanish riots three years ago, together- together with Treville, former captain of the palace guard, dismissed in disgrace after the death of the Spanish Ambassador, under the short rule of Marie de Medici.

 

Richelieu remembered her now. A distant and shy lady, highborn and well-bred. Her parents had wanted her to become a Queen consort but Charlotte didn’t take well to the taciturn foreigner. She was quickly dismissed but stayed at court afterwards. The lady at the piano didn’t seem to have a lot in common with the proud and silent girl that stood before him and the king on her first day in France.

 

“Treville? Who is he?” Louis asked, not really paying attention to the conversation and the carefully maintained mask of calmness on his First Ministers face.

 

“Your Highness, you are in _the Captain’s Garrison_. And Treville is… the Captain.”

 

“And?” Louis asked, now more interested in the subject.

 

“Well. He’s the kind of man that, if I were a man of great importance he would be the one I would turn to for my personal protection. I would know that I could trust him even if he would not like me or what I stand for on a personal basis. If he gave me his word, it would be enough for me.” Louis looked completely in awe, Richelieu felt sicker after every word that passed Captain de la Fère’s lips. The other man suddenly stood up.

 

“Comte de Rochefort”, he stated calmly but with a small frown crinkling his brows. The newcomer ignored him.

 

“Oh, this is a pleasure I’ve been looking forward to,” the blonde man drawled.

 

Before anyone else could react, Richelieu had stepped up and in front of Louis, who looked deeply disturbed.

 

“You. Stay away from him. If you come any nearer I will let you be cut into pieces and feed you to the stray dogs on the street myself.” The Cardinal’s eyes blazed with barely concealed anger.

 

“This threat would be more impressive if you’d actually still hold the power to fulfil it,” Rochefort sneered. But he did take a small step back – not that he would actually ever admit doing it – when his taller opponent growled menacingly, nearly leering over his smaller figure. Try me, if you dare, every fibre of the Cardinal’s body seemed to broadcast.

 

“We are on Moroccan soil now. Your petty French rules can’t and won’t hurt us here.”

 

“I will discuss the arising matters from your presence on Moroccan soil.”

 

“Not here, not now.” The black robes – less noticeable than his blood red ones – seemed to magnify themselves when Richelieu took another step forward.

 

Completely involuntarily, Rochefort stepped back yet again. He had to, if he did not want to seem silly, staring up defiantly at the taller man and looking like a petulant child at the same time.

 

“Then we shall state another time and place,” the new First Minister of France decided, his voice more stable than the Cardinal had hoped. “Tomorrow at ten in the Captain’s office. Both of you.” Richelieu snarled, his whole concentration focused solely on the murderer of his queen.

 

“Captain de la Fère, we are under your authority. Is it your order that we come to your office?” Louis’ voice cut through the tense silence between the four men. He seemed to have regained a little control over himself again, even when his voice still sounded slightly wobbly.

 

“Let us say it is my request. That’s a much more pleasant word.” Rochefort was fuming. The Cardinal could see it in his eyes, the hardening of his features. This was the first battle he had lost. Richelieu swore it would not be the last. Not while he was still able to stand up for his liege.

 

Taking the decision if they would be required to come away from the Comte was the smartest move Louis could have done. It bereft Rochefort of an important part of his power and could be used as footing on the fighting ground the captain’s office would be – thanks to this question they would meet the new First Minister as equals tomorrow, and not as summoned fugitives. Pride for his protégé rose in Richelieu, and he nearly turned away from his opponent to give his king a content and pleased smile. Only his eyes betrayed his satisfaction on the outcome, though. He still made sure Rochefort would be able to see it.

 

Hatred and anger marring his features the Comte turned away, leaving the former leaders of the Kingdom of France, closely followed by Captain de la Fère.

 

“This time they won’t let us out so easily. I am afraid, Armand.”

 

“It has never been easy before, Your Majesty. But we will find a way, I assure you.”

 

He gave Louis a soft smile, reserved for the only purpose of reassuring his king.

 

“Your confidence gives me hope, Cardinal. We have been in quite difficult places before, haven’t we?”

 

“Indeed. But with leaving France the most dangerous part should be behind us now. Morocco is a close ally, but they still won’t shoot us on sight.” At least he hoped so. And maybe the danger was reduced in this new country, but the difficulties had already started. There was still no sign of Bonnaire.

 

“You should meet Toiras at the bar now and find out what he knows. I will try and look for Bonnaire. But, please, be careful, Your Majesty.”

 

“Always, my dear Cardinal.” His smile still slightly shaky but a lot more confident than mere minutes ago, the young noble made his way over to the bar, where he could already see the muscular frame of the general.

 

 

 

Just when he was about to rise, having drowned the rest of his wine, Lady Anne came over. Another singer sang _Tango del la Rosa_ in the background, explaining her absence from the stage and her piano. She looked behind her, features carefully controlled and, seeing no one who seemed to give them any attention, sat down on the chair next to Richelieu. He gently slid back into his.

 

“You should not be here, your Eminence,” the young woman stated matter-of-factly. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

 

“In moments where the darkness is strongest light can come from the strangest direction.” They looked at each other for a long moment. Measuring each other, looking for holes in their respective armour. Somehow a small smile stole on her face, lightening it up to a near angel-like beauty.

 

“You don’t look much different from back then, Eminencia. Only the colours. Like a man of the Spanish court, if one does not look too closely.” Richelieu squinted at her, not sure what to make of this offhand comment.

 

“You, however, did change. Quite a lot, if I may say so.” He continued his careful study of her, while her smile grew even wider.

 

“You played quite beautifully, earlier this evening. I’d be delighted to hear a little more,” the Cardinal commented truthfully, in the end.

 

“Later, gladly,” she assured him and the both fell silent, listening to the sweetly sung words that kept the whole club in awe.

 

Anne was the first to break their silence. “You won’t ask, will you?”

 

“Where is Bonnaire?”

 

“He was arrested here, earlier that night. Murder. I personally don’t think I will see him again.” If Richelieu was a swearing person, this would probably a good moment for a hefty curse. He wasn’t, though, and only frowned into the distance, not liking that his plans had already been disturbed this early in Morocco. He sighed disappointed but didn’t say anything more.

 

After a while he opened his mouth to ask The Other Question when Anne, seeing his movement from the corner of her eyes, stated softly: “Leave him alone, Eminencia. You’re bad luck to him.” And then, looking directly at him, her blue eyes schooled but full of despair, she all but pleaded: “Please. Just… leave him. He is content here. More so than he ever was when you were around. He built this life from scratch. Without you. Don’t destroy it, I beg of you. Not for old time’s sake, not for any other sake. Just… leave him.”

 

They stared at each other, her eyes hard and determined, his angry about the scolding but unsure, so, so unsure. It had been three years.

 

Of course, this was the moment where the owner himself decided to make his entrance.

 

“Anne!” he called her, turning around the corner, sounding satisfied that he found her. “The other guests are already calling for you, what are you –” She nodded in the direction of Richelieu, sitting in his corner at the table. His eyes, full of warm affection for his female main entertainer turned an icy cold blue when he recognised the other man.

 

They stared at each other for an eternity, when the dark voice of Captain de la Fère interrupted them.

 

“Well, you were asking about Treville and here he is! May I introduce you –“

 

“Captain Treville.” Richelieu stood up, definitely not gripping the back of his chair with his most definitely not trembling hands. The other man followed his movement, looking up at him now instead of down. And for the first time in what felt like eternity to the Cardinal he heard the gruff but oh-so-familiar voice of the former captain of the palace guard.

 

“Your Eminence.”


	2. Part II: Words of Honour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what felt like eternity, a noise, halfway between a dry laugh and a sob escaped him. “When Athos told me Louis Bourbon wasn’t travellin’ alone I should’ve already guessed the nature of his so-called company. The bloody Red Snake of the French Court. Who else could it have been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Rick Blaine:** Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine._

 

 

“Captain Treville.”

 

“Your Eminence.”

 

Louis’ gaze switched between his companion and the owner of the _Garrison_. They both seemed oblivious to the world around them, his Cardinal’s eyes had a strange expression one might describe as unsure if Louis didn’t think that his former First Minister was probably incapable of that feeling. The captain just looked… frosty, for lack of a better word.

 

“Oh, you already know each other?” he said, his voice wavering somewhere between delighted and confused.

 

“We do,” Richelieu confirmed.

 

Treville kept silent.

 

“How splendid.” The young noble stared at the Cardinal, clearly expecting some kind of reaction. Receiving nothing he continued, bordering on frustrated for being ignored when clearly, something important was happening here: “One hears a lot about Captain Treville in Casablanca.” The club owner snapped out of his stupor and managed a faint smile for Louis. His face didn’t seem like it was used to this expression.

 

“And about Louis Bourbon everywhere.”

 

“Won’t you join us, captain?”

 

De la Fère scoffed. “Treville never –“

 

“Thank you, I will.” He bowed and took the offered seat, ignoring the obvious surprise on the other captain’s face. Richelieu sat himself down again, too, but still didn’t contribute anything to a possible conversation. He had paled considerably, his eyes more open, more vulnerable than Louis had ever seen him before. After a moment’s hesitation and another one of the former kings’ encouraging smiles Athos, too, sat down at the table.

 

“I must congratulate you on this club, Captain.”

 

The older man tilted his head in a small curtsy, and answered politely: “I congratulate you. For surviving. It can’t be easy when a not insignificant part of the world wants you either hanged or beheaded.” Louis’ smile got a little wobbly.

 

“Thank you, Captain. We try.”

 

“We all do. You succeed.” His eyes had warmed to the young man, less icy and more the cerulean colour of a warm summer day, now. The welcoming waitress from earlier that evening had brought all of them another rich red wine to drink.

 

“Captain de la Fère told us a bit about you, earlier that evening. He seemed quite enamoured by the virtues you build your life on.”

 

“That is kind to hear, Your Highness.”

 

“I wish I’ve had more people like you by my side the day Gaston took my throne away.” Both Treville and Richelieu nearly choked on their drinks, for vastly different reasons, though. Treville recovered first, gulping down another mouthful of wine to hide his grimace. “Is it true you came from Paris, just a few years ago?”

 

“It is, Your Highness. I left during the anti-Spanish riots, together with the girl at the piano.” For a moment his and Richelieu’s eyes crossed, gratitude in the Cardinal’s and resilience in the Captain’s. It was obvious the king did not remember the former captain of his palace guard, a mere commoner whom he might have seen a dozen times up close – probably not more often.

 

“So, how comes it that you and my dear Cardinal know each other obviously quite well?”

 

“We have worked with each other on a couple of occasions,” Richelieu offered, entering the conversation at last.

 

“Ah,” was the only thing his protégé answered in return, with a thoughtful, questioning look the Cardinal didn’t like in the least. Louis stifled a yawn and stood up. “Well, it is late already and I am tired. It has been quite a long day.”

 

“Indeed, it is,” Captain de la Fère confirmed. “Curfew starts in a short while; you should be back at your hotel by then. I will call you a taxi.” He turned around when the waitress appeared again, murmuring “Your check, messieurs.”

 

Instead of Richelieu, who had already reached for the piece of paper, Treville took it. “Nonsense, Constance. These men are my guests.” De la Fère stared at the other captain for another moment before turning around, muttering “interesting…” under his breath.

 

The Cardinal looked at Treville, waiting to be noticed. “I hope we didn’t overstay our welcome,” he stated when he got his attention at last; searching the other man’s eyes for something he couldn’t seem to find.

 

“Not at all.” His voice sounded smoother now, and a little less hostile than his cold greeting earlier that night. It might have to do something with the wine.

 

“We will come again, be assured of that, Captain. I can’t wait to hear about the adventures you must have had on your way to Casablanca. It is a strange decision to stay at a place like this, after all. Good night!” Louis sent a brilliant smile in Treville’s direction, who nodded a goodbye to the two men but stayed in his seat while they left.

 

Richelieu easily fell in behind the smaller noble, keeping silent. It was quite unusual for him not to comment on whatever Louis had done that day and he felt uneasy because of it. “A strange fellow, this captain of yours, my dear Armand. What kind of man is he?” He heard the thoughtful intake of breath behind him and waited patiently for the older man to answer the question.

 

“Like Captain de la Fère said”, Richelieu started at last, while stepping into the waiting cab, “he is a man of great virtues. An honourable man.” A better man than me, the tone of his voice said. I miss him, Louis could read in his eyes.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

After the last of his customers had left and d’Artagnan had turned off the light for the night, Treville sat down in the centre of the main room, his only company a bottle of cheap Bordeaux. Only the rotating beacon light of the airport tower sent a beam of brightness into the _Garrison_ every now and then.

 

He sat there and waited, drinking the wine in a way that was both worrisome in its speed and impressive in its efficiency. He didn’t look up, didn’t move at all except for the hand and arm carrying the fast emptying bottle.

 

“Captain?” Anne stepped out of the shadows that hid the stairs to her rooms.

 

“Captain!” A little more forceful.

 

Treville raised his head, blinking sluggishly. He growled deeply, but the Spanish lady didn’t let this behaviour impress her.

 

“You’re not planning on going to sleep, are you?” She sounded resigned instead of questioning. The Captain hummed noncommittally

 

She sat down next to him and took the bottle, taking a sip and grimaced. Her face was painted in the white light of the tower for a moment, displaying her features crystal clear. The bottle found its way back onto the table.

 

“You shouldn’t wait for him.”

 

“He’ll com’,” Treville slurred, dangerously low.

 

“I didn’t say he wouldn’t. I just don’t think he’s worthy of… this.” She gesticulated to the near empty bottle and his already bloodshot eyes. “Captain, why are you doing this to yourself?”

 

He stared at her, anger radiating off him. Still, it was not directed at her. She didn’t even flinch.

 

“He left me, Anne. Without a word, without a fucking goodbye, without a reason. I think I deserve some answers.”

 

The whole sentence sounded more like “He lef’ me, Ann. W’out wor’ o’ goobye o’ reason. ‘think I deserve answrs.” The woman sighed deeply.

 

“We could go away,” she offered quietly, “just for this night. We’re taking the car, I’m driving. There’s that cute little spot down in the harbour. You can get properly pissed on something that does not remember you of your time in Paris. Just – don’t be here when he comes. If he comes.”

 

This time the anger in his eyes was directed at her.

“’m not that kin’ o’ coward,” he growled.

 

The blonde sighed again, more deeply but resigned. She knew that she had no chance to persuade him when he set his mind onto something, especially not when drunk and unable to listen to words of reason.

 

“No, you’re not. You’re foolish and proud and far too honourable for your own good.” Anne turned around, walked over to the stage and started to softly play her piano. Treville listened, the bottle abandoned for the moment. His eyes fixated the main entrance, unlocked but closed. Still closed.

 

“First they take Bonnaire, then he waltzes in.” The light of the tower didn’t reach Anne on the stage anymore. He couldn’t read her face, when he turned in her direction, hidden in in the darkness of the nightly club. He returned to watching the door again.

 

 

 

After what felt like eternity, a noise, halfway between a dry laugh and a sob escaped him. “When Athos told me Louis Bourbon wasn’t travellin’ alone I should’ve already guessed the nature of his so-called company. The bloody Red Snake of the French Court. Who else could it have been?” He sounded a little more sober now, less slurring yet still full of anger. A moment of silence. Then he banged his fist on the table, resulting in an ugly note on Anne’s side.

 

“What’re you playing?” he asked, sounding a little embarrassed about his outburst. He didn’t want to scare his protégé, whatever else might’ve happened.

 

“Nothing special. It’s called _Perfidia_ , I’m thinking about taking it into our repertoire.”

 

“Y’ should. Sounds nice.” Silence, again. The tune changed, into something even slower, more peaceful.

 

“Go to sleep, Anne.” The old captain sounded tired. “That’s an order. I thank you for your company, but I need… I need to think. Would only upset you.” The sweet melody stopped.

 

“Captain…” she tried once again, one last time.

 

“Anne, if you can’t answer me the question why, of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world he had to walk into mine, you can’t help me. Please. Just… go.” She sighed, audible only due to the surrounding quiet and he heard the soft shuffle of papers.

 

“G’night, Treville,” she murmured finally and disappeared. Treville rose, got himself another bottle of the cheap Red, sat down again and allowed himself to remember.

 

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

 

_The first thing he saw of the Red Snake of France was indeed, his red cardinal robes. He knelt on the hard stone floor of one of the many reception rooms of the Louvre, waiting for his call, when the angry hissing of silk on marble got his attention. He didn’t dare to look up before asked to do so._

_“General Jean Treville, I presume?” the voice of the second mightiest man in France asked him. Unexpectedly, it was not an unpleasant one. After all the young general had heard he had believed the Red Snake’s voice to be a little bit more like… sand rasping over stone or paper or something similar. More croaking, maybe. Instead there was a melody resonating in his words, a complimentary, nearly flattering harmonic. His speech was as smooth as his walk when he danced around the kneeling candidate. Treville suddenly understood why this man could sweet-talk the most angry ambassador or envoy, and even turn Marie de Medici’s head, if one could believe the rumours._

_“At your service, Your Eminence,” he answered obediently._

_“Good, good. As you know, His Majesty, King Louis XIII of the Great Kingdom of France, is looking for a new captain for his palace guard. You – like your comrades de Foix and Belgard – seem to be a suitable candidate for this position. You all have profiled yourselves exceptionally well in the last war, displaying great finesse and strength, morally as bodily, in every situation that was even remotely important, sometimes even beyond that. So, why, pray tell me, should I pick you and not one of the others?” The last sentence was spoken as sharply as a lash of a whip._

_Treville thought furiously about the First Ministers question. He’d hoped he’d be able to see his friends and comrades before he’d be asked for this interview. Apparently not. He didn’t know what the other two had said. He only knew that he wanted this position at court, badly. There was no war to be fought in the near future and most of the soldiers were already far too restless. Many had already been asked to go back to their families or take up a different path, aside from military. They could all be asked right back into the French army if anything were to happen, though. But Treville knew nothing besides the army, it was everything he had ever wanted and reached for. He became one of the youngest generals the army ever had and his regiment famous for their vigour and great fighting spirit. He was proud of his boys, even if some of them were older than he was. So he decided to stick to the truth, and not make anything more up. If the Cardinal was even half the man people made him be in their stories, he would see the truth in Treville’s words._

_“I want to serve my country,” he started at last. The soft footsteps of the other man stopped, somewhere behind him. “In the army I was able to do so. I feel useless there, now. We’re living in peace again, maybe only a temporary state, but it also might be that this was the last war I will experience.” The footsteps had come closer again, softly stepping around his still kneeling figure until they were right in front of him. The red silk whispered. Treville looked up._

_“I was, I am and I always will be ready to die for my country and for my king. If this is not enough for you – loyalty and a word given on honour – you will never be satisfied with a mere soldier.” He stopped, still staring in the face of the First Minister of France. He looked younger than Treville thought he would be. His hair, only half hidden by the red zucchetto, was a mass of dark brown curls, his eyes stormy blue._

_The general could read mild curiosity and something closely resembling satisfaction there, half-hidden by a carefully schooled expression._

_“Very well, General de Treville. I will see you in the morning to inform you about the king’s decision.” He indicated a bow, turned around and left the room, followed by his blood red silk and the gaze of a frowning general of the_ Armée de terre _._

_\---_

 

_“This is my wedding ball, Cardinal!” Louis XIII sounded genuinely upset. “You_ will _dance. I will_ order _you to dance, if I have to.” The Cardinal gnashed his teeth so hard that Treville swore he could hear it all the way back to the niche where he stood on guard while the king of France held court. After about eleven months of engagement of Louis XIII and Charlotte Mellendorf, a German noblewoman from a very wealthy and fertile family, the wedding came near at last. The new captain of the palace guard has held his position for a little more than half of that time by now._

_“As you wish, Your Highness.” A tense bow followed this statement and Cardinal Richelieu turned on his heels, leaving the hall with hard, echoing steps. He was quite obviously fuming. His long red coat cut through the air with a dangerously sharp noise and not a few courtiers stepped back, afraid and impressed by the magnificent statue the First Minister of France presented._

_King Louis XIII looked distressed. Only a few minutes after the Cardinal’s departure he finished court early, unfocused and absent-minded and absolutely unable to concentrate on anything the people asked of him._

_“I am not feeling too well,” he complained nasally, dismissing all of the courtiers with a waving gesture of his hand. The main hall of the Louvre cleared slowly after that._

_Louis had disappeared just moments after his statement. Treville just stood in his guard niche and waited. Standing around like this when neither the king nor any one of his courtiers was around always gave him freedom to let his thoughts roam. It was the first time he had seen the Cardinal openly refuse a request of his king. Looking at the reactions of the other courtiers he easily concluded that they hadn’t seen Richelieu like this before, either._

_There had to be a reason for the First Minister’s refusal to dance. That thought was somehow unsettling. Because there was only one reason Treville could think of why the second most powerful man in France had behaved like he just did._

_The sun had already disappeared behind the Parisian roofs and twilight was falling fast. The night promised to be warm and peaceful, as was befitting for the beginning of June. Treville was just about finished with his preparations, when he heard the slow steps of the Cardinal coming closer._

_Before the older man could get away, he stepped out of the chamber, grabbed the First Minister at his biceps and pulled him into the nearly dark room._

_“What –“_

_Richelieu’s eyes blazed up in anger and he tore himself out of the Captain’s grip._

_Treville didn’t stop him, just closed the door behind them and turned back to the furious First Minister._

_“_ What _in the name of_ sanity _do you think you’re allowing yourself, Captain?” he spat, his voice like acid._

_Treville waited (he got very good at waiting, thanks to and during his watches in the palace) until Richelieu turned around to get a look at the chamber they currently occupied, just a moment later. He flinched softly, and if the younger man had not been actively looking for this he’d probably missed it._

_“I’m going to teach you how to dance.” Richelieu’s head snapped back, a pained expression painted on his sharp features before shock and deep astonishment took over._

_“Why would you –“_

_“Listen, Your Eminence. I may only be captain of the palace guard but I’m neither blind nor stupid. You have a hellish headache coming up. You were incredibly distressed after Our Highness ordered you to dance at his wedding. You’ve never openly refused a request of him before. At least not at court.” The Cardinal stared at him, his stormy eyes carrying an unreadable expression. “The only explanation I could think of was you being unable to dance.”_

_“I was in military school before I –“_

_“I know.” Treville grimaced. He didn’t want to interrupt the one person who could probably get him killed and replaced without anyone noticing and, even if noticed, without any questions asked, but just this time he needed Richelieu to listen. “If you can dance, I am sorry. In that case you may of course leave and on my word as a gentleman, I will never again interfere with your life. But if my assumption is correct and you are indeed either unable to dance or you have forgotten how, we both know that you need to learn it before the ball._

_“You never allow yourself to err in court. To show any sign of weakness and inability. All of these courtiers today have seen your reaction to the King’s order. They will watch every one of your step during that ball, waiting for just one mismatched move. If you don’t want any of them to undermine your authority, you_ need _to be able to sweep them off their feet. Literally. You know that, probably better than me. And I can help you with that. No one will know. I’m only a guardsman, after all.” The Cardinal seemed impressed. He stayed silent, eyeing the captain thoughtfully, until he finally allowed himself to nod, just once._

_“You will tell no one.”_

_“I swear on my honour, Your Eminence.” He bowed deeply, relieved, and offered his hand with a disarming smile at the older man. “May I have this dance, monsieur?”_

_Richelieu followed him hesitantly over to the brand new gramophone, sitting on a table in the back of the room. Their eyes had adapted to relative darkness of the room, the only light coming in through the gap between the door and the floor._

_Treville put a record of Paul Whiteman’s_ Three O’Clock in the Morning _waltz on and guided the still hesitant Cardinal in a respectable dancing position._

_“Closer”, he murmured, placing his hand on the back of the other man and tugging him against his broad chest. Richelieu was stiff like a ramrod, trembling softly. “Relax, Your Eminence. Dancing is all about trust. About giving in to your partner. About taking care of or being taken care of by another person, just for one moment. Can you do that? For me?” His voice lowered itself to a soft rumbling whisper while he pulled the slender body against his, placing his hands in the required positions. He felt the Cardinal’s hot breath on his neck when the other man shifted a little to get more comfortable in his firm grip._

_“Put your hands on my shoulder. Yes, just like that,” he encouraged, blue eyes softening when some of the tension left Richelieu’s shoulders._

_“This is the standard position for the slow waltz and a few other dances. But we’re going to start with the waltz. The movement is deliberate yet flexible. Stay relaxed while moving, confident yet not dominating. Dancing is no game of power. You move like a cat, with finesse and elegance. And now it’s just forward, two, three, back, two three. Yes, just like that…” He lost himself in the music for a while, just gently swaying back and forth, the First Minister of France flushed against him. Slowly he started to turn them a little around with every step, feeling the tension draining out of the shoulders of his partner with every passing moment._

_The music filled the room and the comfortable silence that spread between them. Richelieu was still tense, but he obviously tried to follow the captain’s advice. They had still a long way in front of them to trim the Cardinal’s dancing skills to perfection, but there was a whole month worth of training sessions in the evening ahead of them._

_“The king’s order to dance leads to one dance you must do, the one with the future queen,” Treville quietly said. Only the soft movement of Richelieu’s head against his collarbone indicated that he was listening. “You will be the priest to marry them off, but as First Minister and thus occupying the second highest position in the country the dance with the new queen is the unofficial message to everyone that you have accepted her at the side of our king. You will probably get the first or second dance after the king’s first dance with Mademoiselle Mellendorf.” The song stopped, as did Treville. He still held onto the Cardinal who made no immediate move to extract himself from the captain’s arms._

_“What you can do is to ask the king to dance. As a priest – a Cardinal – you are not bound to dance by society’s rules or expectations. So, after the kings request you can do as you please. Dancing with the king after you danced with the queen will send quite a few messages to the guests. You can probably think about more than I can. This is one of the reasons why I started today’s lesson in the leading position.” He slowly broke loose and went back to the gramophone, restarting the record. Richelieu hadn’t moved but waited patiently for the captain to lead him again to the waltz._

_They were dancing in the dark and time went by, until even the small beam of light below the door had faded. Treville changed the record now and then but felt more at ease than he had in a long time. Richelieu was relaxed and pliant in his arms, leaning against his broader frame with his head cushioned in the crook of the captain’s throat._

_The younger man couldn’t tell how much time had passed when he realised that during their dancing he’d somehow started to play with the soft brown curls in the nape of the Cardinal’s neck. He jerked his hand away as if stung and positioned it on the First Ministers lower back, where it belonged, suppressing a soft tremble._

_Richelieu shifted and murmured a quiet “Don’t.” Treville slowed their steps down, unsure what the other man meant. “Feels nice,” he continued when he realised the captain wouldn’t continue on his own. Still hesitant Treville moved his hand up again, skimming through the lush hair, his heart hammering in his chest. Richelieu nearly melted into his touch, a low, satisfied hum vibrating through him._

_They stayed like this for a long time, the Cardinal turning his head somewhere in between, to give the captain better access to his neck. He could feel every fluttering movement of his eyelids now, the soft tickling of Richelieu’s lashes distracting against his throat. If anyone would come looking for them, finding this room by chance, the only thing that could save them was the darkness surrounding them. This was no position that was befitting for the First Minister of France and the commander of the palace guard._

_Treville only realised that the Cardinal had to be tired after this day at court when he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt the soft fluttering against his throat._

_“Your Eminence,” he started carefully. A quiet sigh he more felt than heard answered him._

_“It’s Armand,” uttered the muffled voice of the First Minister at last._

_“What?” He blinked into the darkness, a little confused but mostly surprised. The Cardinal moved out of his embrace, and carefully touched his hands. He had bowed his head, staring into the direction of their joined hands, invisible in the almost complete darkness._

_“If we keep up these dancing sessions, I would prefer it if you would not address me with my official title.” He raised his head, staring straight at the captain. He felt the burning gaze of those stormy eyes on him, the proud defiance of all social conventions. “My name is Armand.”_

_“Jean,” Treville offered, his throat suddenly dry. He hoped he didn’t imagine the smile on the older man’s face._

_“Jean.” His name sounded like something precious, spoken by the Cardinal. “I look forward to our next dance.”_

_They became friends after that._

_\---_

_“Stop working.” Richelieu looked up from the letter he was currently writing, his tired and bloodshot eyes focussing on the captain who had just entered his bureau. He closed the door behind him and stepped up to the desk. The sun had set hours ago._

_“You have neither slept nor eaten properly in the last three days. That treaty won’t get any better if you lack the necessary concentration because of your carelessness concerning your own health. So. Stop. Working.”_

_Defiance rose in the Cardinal’s eyes, cold and angry but not unlike the anger of a child who had been called back by his parents, away from the playground and his games, against his will. Treville offered one of his rare smiles at this sight, the ones that put small wrinkles all around his sharp blue eyes, the ones not belonging to the soldier but to the man – the friend._

_It was no unusual occurrence that he was the one stopping the First Minister from working himself into his early grave. It may have something to do with the fact that he was probably the person closest to Armand, especially at court. He may be rivalled by the king but Treville knew Richelieu on a more personal level, away from politics and propriety. He knew the angry and the world-weary sides of Richelieu, the man behind the mask. He had seen him so upset, by courtiers, diplomats and sometimes even the king himself, that his hands started to tremble, or so furious they started cutting through the air like sharp blades, disassembling the world and tearing it apart, only to put it back together again, more beautiful than it was before._

_After the royal wedding two years ago their nightly dancing sessions had turned into a ritual of wine and conversation, not every night of course, but every other night – when there was no night shift for the captain, no late training sessions, no high-born dinner parties for the Cardinal._

_“I even brought something from_ Les Halles _to bribe you.” Richelieu’s angry eyes turned from defiant to careful, but still very much on guard. But when the Cardinal actually laid down his pen, curiosity obviously winning over his anger at being disturbed from his work, the corners of Treville’s mouth twitched up in amusement and satisfaction. He placed a small bowl on the desk, containing four dark purple figs._

_“They got them just today. And I know how much you like them, so,” he rambled, embarrassed, as Richelieu stared at the small gift with wide, amazed eyes._

_Almost reverently he picked up one of the small fruits and took a careful bite. There was a moment of silence where he closed his eyes, dazed, before the most sinful moan Treville had ever heard vibrated through the room._

_The captain bowed his head, fiddling with the rim of his hat, and turned away._

_“Enjoy them, Your Eminence. And take the rest of the night off. You deserve it.”_

_Before he could either look up again to bid the other man a good night or comprehend what was happening he suddenly found himself with an armful of Cardinal, wiry body covered in soft silken robes, hot and hungry lips pressed against his, tasting sweetly of the sun-kissed treat._

_Treville instinctively grabbed a handful of those soft curls, already laced with strands of silver, and opened his mouth in response with a deep, satisfied sigh. His other arm pulled Armand closer against him, until their bodies were flushed against one another, closer than propriety would ever deem acceptable._

_They somehow ended against the desk, heavily making out, both out of breath, before the Cardinal seemed to realise what they were doing._

_He snapped himself away but not out of the captain’s grip, looking frightened and aghast, his pupils blown until there was nearly nothing of their stormy blue colour left._

_He opened his swollen mouth, but before he could produce any kind of noise Treville snarled, darkly and dangerously low._

_“Do you regret it? Answer me honestly.” He nearly shook the thinner man, aroused and_ wanting _but restraining himself for the First Minister’s sake._

_“Do you. Regret it!”_

_Richelieu, his eyes still completely blown, softly shook his head. “No,” he whispered._

_“Do you want to do it again?” So much hope was burning in the cerulean eyes of the captain._

_The Cardinal took a long time to answer that question, catching his breath and obviously calculating his options and possible outcomes in that brilliant mind of his. Treville couldn’t even think straight._

_“…Yes,” he breathed finally, nearly too quiet to be heard._

_“Good,” the captain growled and crashed their lips back together. There was nothing more said afterwards._

_\---_

_The curtains rustled softly when Treville stepped into the royal loge of the_ Palais Garnier, _tired and exhausted. The theatre was dark, only the stage dimly lit where an impressive bass singer – André Balbon, maybe? The name sounded faintly familiar, maybe he had heard it on the streets – sang his aria_ Pif Paf _. They were playing one of Meyerbeer’s Grand Operas tonight,_ Les Huguenots _._

_The theatre was full, as it was usual for late Friday night, but the commonly cheerful atmosphere had yielded to an uncomfortable tension. Everyone knew how strained the relationship between King Louis and his mother Marie de Medici was. She had announced another visit a few weeks back; the estimated time of arrival was tomorrow after the mass. The king – sadly – hadn’t had the heart to refuse her. At least he had sent away his wife, the lovely Queen Charlotte, to protect her from his truly dangerous mother. Even after close to seven years of marriage he still didn’t want to expose the German noblewoman to that threat._

_One of the two seats in the loge, both traditionally and officially reserved for the king and queen of France, was empty. The other had been taken by the tense figure of Cardinal Richelieu. He sat there, staring intently down at the stage, his frame taut and bend forward. He looked about as exhausted as Treville felt, the once lush brown curls fully silver by now, forced into submission._

_“Captain,” the older man murmured in greeting, low so as not to disturb the other visitors._

_“Cardinal.” Treville bowed, even if the First Minister could not see him._

_“Where is the king?” Richelieu sounded tired, a soft, long sigh escaping him. He had his head propped in one of the delicate hands, probably appearing like he was intently watching the unfolding opera to a possible bystander. In the darkness his scarlet robes looked like a pool of dried blood, surrounding his frail figure and the throne-like seat._

_“He still hasn’t returned from his hunting trip. I sent another ten men to look for him, just before I came here.” The silver-haired politician turned around, his features softening at the sight of his friend and lover, still half-hidden in the shadows of the entrance._

_“Come and sit with me, Jean. There is nothing else we can do now right now but wait. I assume your presence means that you have finished your tasks in the preparations for the King’s Mothers visit?” It was just a formal question, they both knew it. Their first and foremost duty was to France and its ruler. Treville wouldn’t be here, in the opera loge, if he merely wanted to report his status. Treville being in the_ Palais Garnier _implied he had not only finished his preparations but checked them at least three times by now, all to make sure de Medici’s visit would not disturb the court and Paris in general too much._

_The captain hesitated for a moment before he carefully sat down in the queen’s seat. Richelieu’s closer hand found his nearly instantly, the soft tremble stopping as soon as he felt the reassuring squeeze of the soldier. His gaze fixated on his companion, dark and unreadable in the shadows of the loge. He raised the caught hand to his lips, their eyes never parting, and pressed a soft kiss on the rough skin._

_“Armand…” Treville rasped warningly._

_“This will be the last quiet moment we will get for ourselves before de Medici has left court again. I have no idea how long that will take. So, how much time do we have before your guardsmen will come here, looking for you again?” Another soft kiss, this time to the calloused palm._

_“Half an hour, at the very least. But, Armand-”_

_“Good,” he interrupted the harsh whisper, the smile relaxing his tense features like the warm summer sun in the gardens of the Louvres. He glided out of the king’s throne, closed the curtains surrounding the loge further but not completely and finished his silent dance by slipping onto the captain’s lap. An undignified noise escaped the younger man, deepening Richelieu’s smile, but his hands automatically found their position at the Cardinals waist, stabilising him in his position._

_“You just have to be very quiet, my dear Jean,” he breathed against the captain’s lips, just before sealing them with his own, while his fingers made fast work of Treville’s belt._

_\---_

_“How did it go?” Richelieu turned around as soon as Treville had opened the door he currently occupied, writing another letter. He took one look at the younger man and his expectant half-smile disappeared, replaced by a crestfallen frown._

_“She stripped me of all my positions. I have to leave the country within the next three days.” For the first time in their shared history it was not the Cardinal but Treville who was standing there, trembling and white as a sheet, looking like he had just made a close acquaintance with Death himself. “She made the Spanish Ambassador’s death my complete responsibility.”_

_“Captain…”_

_“_ No! Not anymore! _Didn’t you_ listen _!” he roared, his eyes wild and confused and furious and oh so blue, stepping forward, into the personal space of his counterpart. Richelieu didn’t recede even one inch, but instead came closer, until their bodies were nearly touching. Treville was radiating tension and helplessness in palpable waves. The older man sighed softly and placed one long-fingered hand against the former captain’s cheek, curling them a little. The other closed his eyes in answer, leaning into the soft touch._

_“We both know his death was not your fault.”_

_“As much as the king’s wasn’t?” The blue eyes opened again, staring straight into Richelieu’s stormy ones. They offered the best ‘I dare you to fight me’ attitude the former captain could muster, completely useless in their current situation. The Cardinal tensed, but neither moved nor took his hand away._

_“Yes, as much as the king’s death wasn’t.” The hand caressed the bearded jawline before his silver-haired Eminence leaned in and kissed him softly, sweetly. A tiny fraction of Treville’s tension disappeared, and it took only a few moments more before he tilted his head to give into his lover’s administrations. Time went by until both broke apart, needing air. Their faces, eyes half-lidden, were still just mere inches apart._

_“I underestimated her,” the Cardinal breathed against the former captain’s lips. “I underestimated her so, so much…” His voice broke. “I did not think she would be capable of killing her own son. I thought –“ Treville kissed him again, while burying one of his hands in the silver curls._

_“Shh. We both did.” He sounded desperate, pulling the older man into his arms and burying his nose in his neck. “Come with me, Armand. Please. I don’t want to leave France alone, without you. There is nothing left here for you. She took that ministerial title you loved so well, she took our king and she’s probably already looking for ways to get you completely out of her way. I don’t want to lose you.” Not you too, his tone added._

_Richelieu hid his face in his favourite place, the crook of Treville’s neck. “This was my life’s work, Jean. Everything I ever did I did for my king and for France. Every moment I spend away from court now makes me see the flames flying higher and higher. Who am I, without my work, without my country, without my king?” Treville pulled him even closer, pressing their bodies together, seeking comfort in the familiar touch._

_“You are still Cardinal Richelieu. You are still Armand. And you are still my friend. Do you really believe I will think – I_ think _any less of you after everything we went through together? Armand, if I have to leave France, I’d rather do it with you at my side or not at all. I am nothing. I am a mere soldier who got a little lucky. I am of no interest to de Medici, that’s why I was only stripped of my position. But I don’t want to leave you behind; knowing with every mile I put between us your life is more and more in danger. Tomorrow morning at seven a train down to Marseilles starts. Will you meet me there?” He leaned back a little, a guarded, hopeful expression on his face._

_Richelieu’s eyes softened. His hand returned to the former captain’s jawline, drawing little Christian patterns on it while he whispered: “Yes, you’re right. My place at court is no more. I will be there.” And he leaned in once again, stealing another sweet kiss, before turning back to the letter he had been writing._

_\---_

_6:56. The rain was pouring down in cold and wet cascades. There was still no trace of Armand to be found. Treville was sorely tempted to miss his train and hurry back to the palace to find his long-time lover, but the presence of the young, frightened Spanish Lady Anne stopped him from any rush decisions. He had saved that girl from another small mob on his way to the station and he would_ not _abandon her to the crowd yet again._

_The girl, her long blonde hair soaked and heavy, appeared besides him, looking at him anxiously. “Captain, we need to get on the train. Whoever you are waiting for does not seem to come._ Please, _” she said, insistent. Just when he was finally ready to give in – give up – and turn away to board the train a page-boy carrying the Cardinal’s coat of arms, wet, out of breath and exhausted, emerged from the crowd._

_“Captain, Sire?” He looked into Treville’s eyes and said with a firm voice: “The Cardinal wishes you a pleasant journey, Sire. He also said he will miss your joint work.” The boy bowed deeply, the water running out of his hair and dropping onto the platform._

_Treville stood there, completely dumbfounded, and allowed Anne to drag him off, not even really realising what was happening around him._

_No sooner than the door closed behind them did the engines roar to life, slowly pulling the train out of the Parisian main station. Treville still stared at the spot where the page boy had disappeared again, feeling light-headed and disconnected. It had to be a bad dream, another nightmare. Armand wouldn’t just leave him like this. He couldn’t. Jean felt his breathing becoming erratic, without having any idea of how to fight it. He was falling into darkness. Fast._

 

 

 

~*~*~*~

 

 

 

The front doors finally opened when Treville was finishing the last mouthful of wine. The tower’s beacon light illuminated the tall figure in the entrance for a short, painfully bright moment, revealing the blood-red colour of Richelieu’s robes under the dark grey coat. A half-smile darted over the drunk’s face, disappearing too fast to be really seen.

 

When his late-night visitor seemed to realise that the Captain was indeed still awake and obviously waiting for him he stepped in, closing the doors behind him. Neither man spoke until the Cardinal had reached the chair across from Treville. He didn’t sit down.

 

“Treville, I have to talk to you.” The younger man made a non-committal noise and waved his hands at the unoccupied chair. Carefully looking behind him, at the closed front door, Richelieu sat down.

 

“Why did you have to come to Casablanca? There are other places. Mellendorf’s lands in Germany. England.” The Cardinal sounded frustrated and bordering on angry when he answered: “Do you have any idea how _impossible_ it is to leave France right now, especially when there are people hunting for your head out there?” Treville scoffed.

 

“It’s funny, your voice. It hasn’t changed at all. I can still hear it: _Yes, of course Jean. I’ll be there. We both lost our position; there is nothing left for me in Paris._ ” He stood up with hard, aggressive motions to get himself another bottle of red and a second glass. Richelieu frowned unhappy, disappointed.

 

“Don’t, Captain. Please. I can understand how you feel. I –“

 

“You can understand how I feel. _Ha_.” He slammed the items onto the table, placing his hands on both sides of them and stared at the pale Cardinal, both men’s eyes bloodshot and tired. “How long did we spend together in Paris, _Dear_?” Every word had a sharp, cutting edge to it, accentuated by the slight drunken slur.

 

“I didn’t –“

 

“Seven and a half years at court. Seven spent as your _obedient_ friend, five as your fucking _lover_. It’s still the last day I remember best. The wild finish. A man standing at the train station in the pouring rain, with a comical look on his face because his heart had just been ripped apart. And the only thing stopping him from just turning himself in is an oath given to a frightened Spanish lady to protect her with his life and get her into safety.

 

“Tell me, Your Eminence, how long did you know that Louis’ death was actually a farce, huh?” Richelieu stared at him, the storm in his eyes full of sadness and deep disappointment. He stood up with a sharp move, the dark robes hissing angrily in the silent night.

 

“There is no sense in talking to you if you refuse to listen,” he spat upset, turned around and left.

 

As soon as the door closed behind him, every step followed by the Captain’s gaze, he picked up the second glass and smashed it against the door with all his strength. Mentally and bodily exhausted his body crashed back into the chair Treville had already spent most of the night in and he fell into a fitful sleep.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Athos de la Fère really didn’t like the new First Minister of France. The Comte took his office chair behind the desk like he owned the place, shamelessly putting his feet onto the table.

 

“I am quite sure that Bonnaire left the letters of transit with Monsieur Treville. You need to search his club immediately.”

 

Turning away towards the huge cabinet, filled with books and a lot of other different trinkets, to hide his disapproving frown, the captain stated: “If he does, he’s too smart to let us find them there.”

 

Rochefort scoffed, arrogant and half-amused. “You give him too much credit, Captain. My impression was he’s just another blunt French soldier.”

 

Athos face was serious when he finally turned back. “You shouldn’t underestimate French soldiers, Comte. Especially not the ones who have already survived at the French court for more than a few weeks.”

 

Rochefort’s eyes blazed with anger. “Are you trying to threaten me?”

 

“Of course not, Comte,” he nearly snapped. The smaller man watched him, obviously pleased for getting this quite emotional response out of the normally controlled captain.

 

“As to the Bourbon. I want him watched 24 hours a day.”

“It may interest you to know he’s on his way here at this very moment.”

 

 

 

Only a few minutes later, spent in tense silence, the door opened to reveal one of de la Fère’s officers accompanied by Louis Bourbon and Cardinal Richelieu.

 

“Your Highness, Your Eminence,” the captain greeted them politely, gesturing to the chairs in front of his currently occupied desk. The Comte played with his paperknife, obviously bored. He seemingly didn’t acknowledge the presence of the two visitors, but the uncomfortable shifting when Richelieu’s gaze locked onto him told the Cardinal otherwise. Louis sat down, obviously thankful for the opportunity, while his companion remained standing.

 

“Louis –“ Rochefort started, only to be cut off by the dangerous snarl of the leering guardian: “Still _Your Royal Highness_ for you, _Comte_.” His look snapped to the tall Cardinal, trying to stare him down and failing miserably. The dirty blonde politician averted his eyes for half a second, before scowling at Richelieu once more and turning back to Louis.

 

“His Royal Highness,” he spat “is an escaped prisoner of the Great Kingdom of France. As is His Eminence. You have been lucky so far, eluding our efforts to keep you where you belong. You’ve reached Casablanca and it is my _duty_ and my _pleasure_ to make sure that you’ll stay here.”

 

“We’ll see how that goes.” The Cardinal smiled, a small, dangerous smile that’d send most people turning around on their heels. This time, though, Rochefort’s answering sneer was nearly as arrogant as Richelieu’s.

 

“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to be a great problem. De la Fère’s signature is necessary on every visa to leave Casablanca. My dear Captain,” he continued, turning to the still standing, still silently fuming officer, “is it possible that His Highness,” he looked smug for cutting out the _royal_ without any comment coming from the Cardinal, “will receive a visa?”

 

“I’m afraid not. My regrets, Your Highness.” The captain bowed in the direction of the nobleman, looking not entirely happy. Even if he’d personally support the former king the diplomatic relations between Morocco and France were too important to be put at stake.

 

“Well, maybe I’ll take a liking to Casablanca. The weather seems fine so far and the people are not all that unpleasant”, Louis answered diplomatically, presenting Rochefort a brave smile. Richelieu threw a fond look at his protégé before turning back to the new First Minister.

 

“And… what about His Eminence?”

 

The Cardinal’s answering smirk was almost lazy. If Louis was fine, he’d be able to endure everything at his side. “The air is definitely better for my lungs than the Parisian ever was. You don’t need to concern yourself about me.” He bowed his head, still smirking. “If that would be all?”

 

“Oh, no need to hurry.” Rochefort’s eyes blazed with anger. “You may be in Casablanca indefinitely. Or –“ A dangerous glint manifested itself in the cold blue. “you may leave for Lisbon. Tomorrow. On one condition, of course.” He leaned back, smugness in every move.

 

“Of course,” Louis answered faintly and then, with a little more vigour: “What condition?”

 

“You know the leaders of the false royalists in all the cities you’ve visited, Paris, Rouen, Lyon, Marseilles –“

 

“Even in Orléans,” Richelieu threw in, earning himself a hateful glare from the younger politician.

 

“- Avignon and yes, also in Orléans. Tell me their names and whereabouts and you’ll have your visa in the morning.” Louis had turned pale during Rochefort’s little speech.

 

“I would _never_ betray my loyal subjects to the likes of you, Monsieur! I may have lost my throne to my unworthy brother – for now – but there are still people out there waiting for the return of their _true_ king! I cannot believe you even have the guts to _ask_ me for _betrayal_  of my _own_ country in my _own_ presence!” He jumped up, clearly agitated, closer to furious, and added: “And if I have to die in Casablanca because of it – these men are standing by my side, fighting for my cause. I am their king, their leader, their sanctuary. Only a man of dubious background – men like you, Comte – could even _think_ about betraying their own people! Good day!” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Three pairs of eyes followed him, one fuming, one slightly amused and one soft with proud devotion.

 

“And if you were trying to kill us all,” Richelieu continued Louis outburst, completely without the former sharp edge to his words, “there will always be people to stand up in their place, rising to fight for what is right. With every soul and every heart you kill, the support for our cause will only grow stronger.”

 

“Your Eminence, I heard that you were a great orator. I understand now what they meant. But in one very important point you are mistaken. Because if anything … _unfortunate_ were to happen to His Royal Highness while he tried to escape from Casablanca, everything you have ever fought for, every still-living false royalist, will cease to exist.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare.” The Cardinal had paled considerably during Rochefort’s words. “This is an independent country and not under your rule. Any violation of this freedom Morocco has fought for such a long time will fall back on Captain de la Fère and your presence here in Casablanca. It would disturb the diplomatic relations between the two countries, staining them permanently. The royal family is still held in high regard here.” He turned to the captain, nodding in his direction. “If I may take my leave?”

 

Before he could reach the office door, Athos stopped him one last time: “His Highness showed some interest in the whereabouts of Monsieur Bonnaire last night.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You may tell him that he won’t be able to converse with him anymore. He died last night, trying to escape.” The Cardinal fixated the captain with a long, hard stare, turned around, the coat flapping impressively around him, and left.

 

Rochefort relaxed back into the captain’s chair and continued fiddling with the paperknife. “They’ll head to the Black Market next. What a waste of intellect that Cardinal is, choosing Louis of all people as his leader. He could have made a nice addition to Gaston’s court, if he’d been a little more ambitious and a little less virtuous.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“Hello, Ninon.”

 

“Good morning, Captain. I’m glad you could make the time. Drink with me?”

 

“If it’s coffee you’re offering you know I won’t refuse.” He smiled at her, gently. “Yours is still the best you can find in Casablanca.” The lady turned away, hiding her pleased blush, and send one of her girls to fetch them the dark brew.

 

“Have a seat, Captain.” Only when both sat down, supplied with coffee, did she start.

 

“I didn’t only ask you here to have a drink with you. Even if it’s always a pleasure to do so. There are not enough people in Casablanca valuing the work we women do. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” She swirled her cup thoughtfully. “The news about Bonnaire upset me.”

 

“He was a slave trader before he started dealing in visas. You’re probably about as sorry for him as I am.” His gaze wandered away from Comtesse de Larroque, out on the street where he could see the two former leaders of France strolling through the crowd.

 

“He still offered my girls special deals every time one of them decided to travel on. Captain de la Fère wouldn’t offer any special deal to his own mother, even at gunpoint, as you know quite well.”

 

Treville gave a confirming noise and waited for her to continue, while following the movement of King and Cardinal.

 

“No, the thing that disturbs me most is now that Bonnaire is dead no one knows where those letters of transit are.”

 

Treville didn’t disrupt her, even while she searched his face for an obvious reaction. She sighed softly when he refused to react.

 

“If I had those letters I could save two of my girls who are stuck here in Casablanca because of their background. You know there are girls under my protection this applies to.”

 

“Or you – or the current owner of the letters – could sell them and make a fortune.”

 

The old soldier finally turned back, capturing her with a scrutinising look.

 

“If I were to sell them it would have to be to a very special person. Like the king of France, maybe.”

 

She smiled, no soft smile including her eyes but a sharp, business like smile that turned them darker and seemingly upset. “I’ll put my cards on the table, Captain. I believe you know where the letters are and are most probably the current owner of them.”

 

“Funny. Rochefort and de la Fère seem to think the same thing. They are searching my club right about now. I was all too glad to have an excuse to come here instead of watching those beatniks mess around with the _Garrison_.” Another look outside told him that the two Frenchmen had separated and Louis was heading into the direction of Ninon’s salon.

 

“You must excuse me now, Ninon. There are urgent matters I have to attend.” He stood up, ignoring the disappointed look on de Larroque’s face and turned towards the door. “Thank you for the coffee. It was delicious, as always.”

 

“Captain, if you ever need someone to confide in – you know where to find me, yes?” He bowed, his expression softening. “Of course, Ninon.”

 

 

 

The former king of France was just about to step into the salon when Treville came out. He nodded in greeting and said: “Ninon’s the fair lady at the table, just behind the wooden screen.” Before the young noble could say something in answer, he had already disappeared in the crowd, heading to the last booth he had seen Richelieu.

 

He was standing at a cloth merchant, checking the quality of some silk, when the Captain found him. The merchant was babbling insistently, offering insane prices like he did to every traveller and non-citizen. Treville settled next to the tall politician, who acknowledged him with a disinterested, cold glare, only lasting for a moment.

 

“I’m sorry. For last night I mean.” The Cardinal hummed noncommittally. The merchant’s talking ceased, watching them with curiosity. A stern look of the Captain send him scattering off, leaving them alone in the crowd. At last Richelieu turned around, facing him.

 

“I was in no condition to receive you last night.”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” The Cardinals voice sounded cold, impersonal. Upset.

 

“You wanted to tell me something. That’s why you came last night, didn’t you? You wanted to tell me why you ran out on me at the station.”

 

“Yes. But it doesn’t matter now.” He turned back to the silk, his jaw clenched. There was a slight tremble in his hands, disappearing as soon as the scholar’s fingers found a new hold in the cloth.

 

“It does to me. Got stuck with a ticket, after all.” His attempt at humour failed miserably, not only because Richelieu was obviously in no mood for joking but also because the words itself sounded more like they were coming from a scorned lover. Which they did, basically. At least it got the older man to turn around, again.

 

“The Captain I knew in Paris would’ve understood. I’d have been able to tell him. But the one I saw last night, looking at me with such hatred… No.” Their gazes locked, storm meeting the sea. “I’ll leave Casablanca soon. We’ll never see each other again. That’s probably for the best.” The Cardinal looked away, over to Ninon’s salon.

 

“You were very dear to me, in Paris,” Richelieu sighed, tiredly. “Let us hold onto what we had back then, not what we are now. Not last night.” He started into the direction of the café, but Treville’s hand on his arm stopped him.

 

“If you knew Louis was alive, back then, for the whole time – why did you dump me? Did you decide at last that my duty for France was not enough for your standards? That after every reassuring word you told me you still actually believed me to be responsible for the king’s – whatever? Was it all a lie?” The Cardinal looked actually hurt by his last question.

 

“I didn’t know until the very last moment. And now excuse me, Captain.” He was still radiating cold anger when he wrenched himself free of Treville’s grip, continuing his way over to Ninon’s.

 

 

 

Richelieu found Louis in the company of the Comtesse de Larroque, obviously enjoying himself if also looking a little dejected. He waved him over enthusiastically while the woman ordered another round of coffee.

 

Before the Cardinal had even sat down, his protégé already started to babble: “Ninon just told me that she’s unable to help me. She got great connections but word has gone round and Rochefort seems to be unfortunately good at blackmailing. But she said it may be possible to get a visa for you –“

 

“We’re only interested in two visas.” Richelieu turned to the lady with finality in his words. Louis looked even more dejected.

 

“But… the Duchesse d’Aiguillon… You could –“

 

The older man’s gaze softened when he turned to the royal.

 

“Your Majesty. I will not leave Casablanca without you. This is my last word on that matter.” He picked up the rightful kings hand and pressed a soft kiss on its back. “If I could save your life with sacrificing mine I would gladly do so. And there is no force in Heaven or Hell to convince me otherwise.”

 

Louis looked close to tears when the Cardinal had finished his small speech and ceased any further protest. He appeared to be in dire need of a hug, instead.

 

Ninon smiled softly, her eyes warm and full of fondness. “It is obvious your decision stands. I will make another suggestion to you, even if it cannot possibly profit me. In your world I’m probably seen as a witch or something equally ridiculous because I believe in equal rights for women but you have your hearts at the right place and I respect good men when I see them. You have probably heard about Bonnaire and the letters of transit?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“They weren’t found upon Bonnaire’s arrest. I don’t know for sure but I believe Monsieur Bonnaire has left them with the Captain.”

 

“The Captain,” Richelieu breathed faintly, dismayed.

 

“A difficult man, that Captain. But it’s worth a chance.”

 

“Thank you, Comtesse. It was a delight meeting you. I will miss the coffee and the company when we leave Casablanca.”

 

“The pleasure was all mine, Your Highness. Your Eminence.” She did a small curtsy when she showed them to the door. “Good luck.”

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

His companions came earlier that evening. Treville didn’t like it one bit. The First Minister looked angry and upset, most likely because of the unsuccessful search for the transit visas, and he stared at the Captain’s female personnel far too offensively. The club owner looked after the blonde, while Athos slid into the chair next to him. He followed the Captain’s gaze and commented drily: “Watch out. That dog barks and bites.”

 

“Did he tell you to let your men go through my club that carelessly? We barely got it cleaned up again in time to open.” Treville filled his glass again, cheap red, the same like the night before.

 

“He did. I told Rochefort he wouldn’t find the letters here. He wouldn’t believe me. My men had to be especially throughout.” The other captain filled himself a glass too, taking a sip without grimacing even a bit. “Treville, do you have those letters of transit?”

 

“Are you a supporter of Louis or of Gaston, Athos?”

 

“Sorry. Subject’s closed. I’ll see if I can flatter that peacock of a Comte a little.” The guardsman stood up, glass in hand, and disappeared. Treville was alone again.

 

He knew Louis and Richelieu were coming again, he had seen their reservations on the schedule. He wasn’t glad about it. There had been more disturbances in his club in the last twenty-four hours than in the whole month before that. Richelieu had always meant trouble. Just until now it had seldom been this kind of trouble. And after the way Richelieu had acted towards him just a few hours earlier – like he was the offended party in this and not the exiled guardsman – he had no great interest in seeing his Red Eminence again that soon.

 

 

 

He looked up from his glass when he heard brawling noises from the bar, rising from his corner seat and stalking over to the two fighting men. He knew one of them, a strong supporter of Gaston and known for his boxing skills in the darker, dirtier parts of town.

 

Every pair of eyes around snapped to the Captain when he grabbed both men by their necks, completely unimpressed, and crashed their heads together. They howled in surprise and pain, stumbling apart and turning around, to the growling club owner.

 

“I don’t like disturbances. Either stop or get out.”

 

Both men, fully grown and younger than him, stared at him with wide eyes. They started to slowly step away, throwing each other angry glances but scattered off when the burning gaze of the Captain bore itself into them.

 

 

 

After he was sure the two troublemakers had disappeared, Treville made his way over to the stairs. He didn’t feel like company tonight. But of course he ran into Louis and the Cardinal on his way over, just when the pair stepped into the club.

 

“Good evening, Your Highness, Your Eminence.” He bowed curtly.

 

“Good evening, Captain. You see? Here we are again.” The former king of France beamed at him, clearly delighted to see the older man. “Could we get a place close to your lovely Anne? I enjoyed her music very much, the other night,” Louis pleaded. He stopped a moment, looking over to the table with the French envoys. “And as far away from that gruesome barbarian as possible.” Treville hummed thoughtfully and escorted them to a small, hidden niche near the stage.

 

He saw his two guests exchanging looks on their way over and, while the Cardinal sat down, Louis kept standing, watching him expectantly.

 

“Captain Treville, would it be possible to talk to you for a moment? Somewhere in private?” he finally asked. After a moment’s hesitation the Captain nodded. “Follow me.”

 

 

 

They stepped into his office, the music reduced to a pleasant background noise, and sat down. He pulled out one of the better bottles he kept hidden up here and offered the noble a glass of red. The rightful ruler of France accepted graciously.

 

“You know what happened in France to bring me and the Cardinal to Casablanca, don’t you?” Treville nodded.

 

“You probably also know that there are – in theory – only two possible ways for me to go – I have to get to America or I have to go back to France, hoping to get enough support to overthrow my brother.”

 

“The Grands –“

 

“Ninon says that you’ve got the transit visa,” the royal interrupted him hastily, talking faster, more urgently. “They are probably my only chance to actually continue my journey to the States. And for me, there is no other possible path to take. Richelieu might not want me to see it, but I know that Rochefort will try to get me out of the way, no matter in what kind of manner.” He stopped for a moment, taking a sip of the dark red wine, calming down again.

 

”If I stay here in Casablanca, my death is certain. I know that,” he continued silently, nearly whispering. “I can only run away for so long. And I’m tired. I don’t want to hide myself every night, not knowing if I will wake up the next morning. Surely you can understand that.”

 

“I do, your Highness.” Probably better than the young noble could imagine.

 

“You were in the _Armée de terre_ once, weren’t you? You behave like a soldier. A very good one, as I like to think.” The Captain gave a confirming noise, swivelling his glass thoughtfully while he watched his guest intently.

 

“Then you were fighting for my country, for my kingdom, once. You know the people that live there. Gaston sacked the land and laid waste to villages where I found people still true to me. I want to help these people. They are still my citizens. I am still responsible for their well-being. And I can’t help them here.

 

“I can give them a little hope, show them I’m still alive, but wherever I go that bloodhound of my brother follows me. I need to get to America to prepare my return, to gather support for my cause. And I need your help to accomplish that. The people in the city all think very highly of you. Because you are a man of your word. A man of honour and of principles and with a sense for what is right.” The king stopped, breathing in deeply, offering his interlocutor a disarming smile.

 

“Do you believe my cause to be worthy and justified, Captain?”

 

Treville nodded solemnly. “I do. You are the rightful king of France.”

 

“Great. So, would you appreciate an offer of a 100.000 Francs?”

 

Treville blinked once, then again. “I appreciate it,” he answered finally, carefully, “but I don’t accept it.”

 

“200.000, then!”

 

“You could make it a million, Your Highness. My answer would still be the same.”

 

The former king looked like he was about to throw either a tantrum or the glass against the nearest wall. “There must be some reason why you refuse to help me! Why you are keeping the visas from me!?”

 

“Ask Armand about the Guard. He’ll know what you mean.”

 

“What?”

 

“Ask Armand.” Louis opened his mouth, clearly wanting to protest or ask further questions, when the first bars of _Les aigles montent encore_ could be heard. The young noble went completely rigid, his eyes hard and panicked and angry and so, so vulnerable at the same time. That song was the victory anthem of Gaston, written for the fight against his brother, to rally and bind his supporters under his royal banner.

 

“They can’t be serious”, he croaked, incredulously, and broke out of his stupor, hastening to the door. Treville was only one step behind him.

 

 

 

They stopped on the stairs, looking down into the club. Rochefort and Labarge had confiscated Anne’s movable piano and were singing Gaston’s anthem together with their companions and a couple of the guests while most of the patrons only looked at them with disdain in their eyes. Not a few were whispering under their breath, throwing upset glances either in the direction of the singers or the corner where Richelieu was still sitting, an already half-empty bottle of a ‘75s Bordeaux in front of him.

 

The tall politician was deathly pale, his hand clasped around bottle and glass, glaring daggers of fire and ice in the direction of the offensive Frenchmen. Rochefort only looked smug.

 

Treville stared down at the unfolding scene, unsuccessfully searching for Athos and only saw Louis sprinting down the stairs out of the corner of his eyes.

 

 

 

The rightful king of France stalked over to the stage where the big band waited for the envoys to stop their presentation and ordered, full of white-hot burning anger: “Play _Le Retour des Princes français à Paris_!”

 

The people closest to the Royal turned around, some astounded, some impressed, some confused. Richelieu stood up, taking a half-step in the direction of his protégé, his eyes widening, yet stopped, trembling, and turned to the Captain, still standing on the top of the stairs. The band did the same, watching and waiting for his sign before playing the Royal Anthem of the kingdom of France.

 

The Cardinal stared at him, softly shaking his head in a silent plead. Treville ignored him. Instead he gave his musicians a curt nod and let the music rise.

 

It only took the first few words, sung by Louis himself, to coax the other patrons into standing up, joining the chanson. The volume increased, drowning out the no longer domineering singing of Rochefort and his men. One by one they stopped, soon after realising there was no chance to stand up against that crowd, cheering for the former king.

 

Richelieu, being one of the few who had not joined in, sank back into his seat. Treville could see the trembling in his hands even from the position where he was standing. The Cardinal watched his king with glassy, watery eyes and a sad half-smile, finally turning away to hide his face from the other guests.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one song in here I made up ;-) Can you find it? :D


	3. Part III: For King and Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If he goes back to France, his brother will kill him.”
> 
> “He might. But you underestimate my influence over Gaston. I can guarantee your precious little side project a nice and comfy spot to stay. But if he stays in Casablanca… well,” the blonde clicked his tongue. “A human life is not worth overly much here, shall we say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Jack Sparrow:** Me? I'm dishonest, and a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly. It's the honest ones you want to watch out for, because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly... stupid._

 

 

Only moments after this blatant display of royalism and loyalty a shrill whistle stopped all the upcoming chatter. Athos stood there, in the centre of the club, his expression motionless and stern.

 

“The club is closed until further notice. Clear the room at once.”

 

Silence fell and one after the other the guests left the _Garrison_. Protest burned in their eyes, fired by the joined presentation. Yet they cast their eyes down, disappointed when the city watch made their presence known and Captain Treville did nothing at all to stop Captain de la Fère’s administrations.

 

It was only when Athos came closer to the club owner that he quietly asked: “Why?” They both knew why. But the younger man still forced a sad smile on his face and answered: “Let’s say it’s because of your illegal gambling backroom, yes?” Treville didn’t look happy, not at all, but he nodded grudgingly.

 

“How long?”

 

“I don’t know. Till Rochefort deems it to be safe again, maybe.” They both fell silent, standing next to each other and watched the bustling mass of people go.

 

 

 

It was when the Cardinal was getting up to leave that the new First Minister came around, his smile still incredibly smug, maybe even more self-satisfied than before Louis’ musical outburst.

 

“After that display,” he started, with a nearly ceremonial voice, “Louis is no longer safe in Casablanca. If the Moroccan government wants to keep his good relationships with France it won’t be able to accept such a blatant rebellion against its Crown.”

 

“Just this morning you implied it wasn’t safe for _His Royal Highness_ to leave Casablanca,” Richelieu hissed. Rochefort’s smile just got wider. This was one victory against the former Minister the latter wasn’t able to deny him.

 

“Except for one destination, Cardinal. If he goes back to France he will find a nice spot readied for him – and for you – in the Bastille. You know that level where we hold the high-born prisoners; it’s not too uncomfortable there. You furnished and arranged it yourself, if I remember correctly.”

 

“If he goes back to France, his brother will kill him.”

 

“He might. But you underestimate my influence over Gaston. I can guarantee your precious little side project a nice and comfy spot to stay. But if he stays in Casablanca… well,” the blonde clicked his tongue. “A human life is not worth overly much here, shall we say?”

 

“What have your promises ever been worth, Rochefort?” Richelieu’s voice was as rich as golden honey but hard and cruel like an ice cold blade. “You swore me an oath, once, and I paid you better than _Monsieur_ will ever be able to. You may have a knack for blackmailing, but that’s about it. You are a mediocre orator and not overly loyal. It’s only a matter of time until Gaston sees that too and casts you aside, leaving you behind like the dog you are. Good night.”

 

With hissing robes, the Cardinal got up, leaving the younger man standing in the emptying club.

 

Louis was waiting for him at the door, having refused the guards’ – who didn’t dare to touch the Royal – attempt to get him out like the other guests. He was pale and not looking overly happy, if maybe a little more relaxed than when they had arrived at the club that evening. The people of Casablanca had made it blatantly clear where their sympathies lay.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

The pair kept quiet until they had reached their hotel room, neither speaking about Louis’ conversation with Treville nor about the performance of the Royal Anthem.

 

The young noble could feel the anger radiating off his guardian the whole way back to the hotel. Dejectedly, he bowed his head, waiting for the scolding about safety and keeping a low profile. It wasn’t the first time he did something reckless despite being a wanted fugitive. Sometimes he just couldn’t help himself. And when they started to sing and play _that_ song, he knew he had no choice.

 

Because breaking down and crying wasn’t an option.

 

Not when they were all looking up to him, waiting for his guidance.

 

“Armand?” he asked softly, his voice apologetic. The older man looked over to him, his features softening when he saw the despondent look on his protégé’s face.

 

“That was incredibly irresponsible, Your Majesty.” His voice was soft, sad. The former king felt ashamed. He still felt like a child, sometimes, under the stern gaze of the Cardinal. He didn’t like upsetting his friend and tutor.

 

“I had to do it.”

 

“I know. But now we are not safe here, not anymore. Morocco has been a friend of France for a long time. They won’t try to upset our government, even if it’s not under your rule anymore. The trading treaties bind these two countries together very closely. With offending Rochefort – and with that _moron_ being the First Minister also your brother Gaston– you opened yourself to being targeted by the Moroccan government.” Richelieu sighed, tiredly. “But let’s not talk about this anymore. The damage has already been done. There is nothing we can do about that. How was your meeting with Treville?”

 

The older man stepped to the window during those last words, glancing at the corner where he could see the spy, not even overly trying to stay unseen. They were either very badly trained or trying to make them feel on edge and paranoid because of their constant company.

 

“Apparently he has the letters.” Richelieu turned back again, a relieved half-smile on his face. It died down when he saw the still glum look of his king’s features. “I had hoped to persuade him first, and when that didn’t work out I offered him money. He refused.” Armand looked troubled by Louis’ description. He opened his mouth and closed it again, a frown spreading over his forehead.

 

“He told me to ask you about _the Guard_. He specifically said _ask_ _Armand_. What did he mean by that? Why did he use your Christian name?” The noble’s gaze was questioning, probing. Curious. For a moment, before the Cardinal got a grip on his features and spun around, stalking over to their door, he could read so many conflicting emotions there. Anger, fear, confusion, relief, insecurity.

 

“Armand?” he probed. “It’s about his… his position in Paris, isn’t it? Who was he?” Who was he to you?, the tone of his voice asked.

 

The Cardinal stopped at the door, sighing and bowing his head. He turned off the light. “Yes, it is.” He raised his head again, meeting the eyes of his protégé and explained, quietly: “He was captain of the palace guard for more than seven years, until your mother dismissed him. He- he took full responsibility for your apparent death and the death of the Spanish ambassador.” His voice broke. “We had worked together very closely up to that point. I trusted him and his judgement completely. He was one of the few people at court I were able to confide in. He –“

 

Richelieu stopped, a faint tremble in his hands. He didn’t start again; instead he walked over to the window and gazed out, into the nightly city.

 

Louis mind swirled, trying to comprehend these new pieces of information. He remembered that the position of the palace guard’s captain had been vacant when he had come back, and he remembered that the Cardinal and his new captain had never been able to get along properly. Instead, Armand had seemed downright hostile against that man.

 

But however hard he tried, he was unable to conjure an image of Treville at his court. He admitted that his face had looked somewhat familiar upon their first meeting yesterday night, but he hadn’t given it much attention. As king, one saw far too many people to remember and familiar faces wherever he went was a price he had to pay as leader of a nation.

 

Richelieu still didn’t speak but fiddled with the windowsill. He was still trembling, faintly. And Louis understood.

 

“Armand?” he asked softly into the silence. The Cardinal looked up, questioningly. His ever-moving hands stopped their dance for a moment, touching the sill for support. “You know I love you very much, right?”

 

The older man tilted his head, frowning slightly. He fully turned around to face his king and leaned against the board nearly unnoticeable, the trembling stopping when he focused his gaze on his protégé.

 

“I suppose so, Your Majesty. Why?” Louis ignored the question, his features regal and solemn.

 

“And you know I would never judge you for what you do and what you are, yes?”

 

“Your Majesty?” Richelieu definitely looked troubled now, obviously unsure about what the young man was playing at. It was rare that the Cardinal was unable to guess in advance what his king wanted to say.

 

“Whatever personal relationship you had with the Captain, in Paris I mean,” he started, “is fine with me. You do not need to explain yourself. If he made you happy in the hours you did not spent at my side, I am happy for you too. And if you are sick of my constant company by now, that’s fine too.” He picked up speed during his speech, nearly stumbling through the next words: “I release you. Go and be happy with your Captain.”

 

His eyes were wide opened and frightened now, even if he tried his best to push it down. “You have served me with the utmost loyalty for as long as I can remember. It is time to reward you for that service the way you deserve it. You are free to go.”

 

Devastating loneliness took over his aristocratic features.

 

Richelieu looked like his heart was breaking.

 

He made two striding steps and sank on his knees in front of his liege, his eyes burning with loyalty and deep devotion. He delicately picked up the white fists of Louis, clasping them in a warm embrace and kissed the tense hands softly.

 

“I swore never to leave you, Your Majesty – _Louis_ ,” he whispered, his voice upset. “I swore that no man, no nation, no _god_ would be able to stand between me and this word I gave you.” He breathed, deeply, and finally continued, quieter than before: “Not even my former… companion.”

 

Tears were running down Louis’ face and he choked down a sob, staring down at the kneeling figure of his most trustworthy, most devoted, most loyal servant. He let out a ragged breath, trying to calm down again.

 

“I am glad,” he whispered at last, his voice hoarse, “to know someone like you at my side.” The Royal sank down on the bed, never letting go of his Cardinal’s hands.

 

 

 

They finally broke their connection when a soft knocking on the door disturbed the comfortable silence.

 

Richelieu stood up, wincing a little. His body slowly but surely told him that he wasn’t getting any younger. He felt stiff from holding the kneeling position on the floor for too long but he didn’t care. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt calmer than he had in weeks, maybe even months.

 

Signalling his protégé to keep his place on the bed he walked over to the door, opening a tiny crack.

 

A woman stood outside, dark hair hidden under a similar dark coat.

 

“Your Eminence?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Toiras sends me. It’s –“

 

“You must be Milady, then? Armand, let her in. I expected her. Toiras said he would send her to me,” Louis interrupted the fair-skinned beauty. Reluctantly the Cardinal moved out of the door, opening it enough for the lady to step into the room. He closed it again as soon as the tail of her coat hat slipped in, putting himself between this exit and Milady.

 

“Your Majesty,” she murmured, curtsying elegantly before the noble. “You asked Toiras to come to the French royalist’s gathering this night. I am here as your loyal servant to guard and guide you to the meeting place.” She held her head downcast, lids half closed, like a true highborn lady.

 

“Louis?” Richelieu’s voice was calm, yet questioning.

 

“Yes, I did, Armand.” He stood up, reaching for his coat. “I don’t want to hear you say anything against it. My loyal subjects need to see me. And I _want_ to meet them.”

 

“I won’t hold you back, Your Majesty. I just don’t want to see you getting hurt.” The Cardinal eyed the lady, who had still not removed her hood, suspiciously. She turned around, as if she had felt his gaze on her back, and smiled a toothy, challenging smile.

 

“I can kill a man in seventeen different ways before he can even comprehend what is happening. Don’t you worry, Your Eminence. He is safe in my hands. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

 

“You see, Armand? You have nothing to worry about.” Louis moved over to the door, touching his aging guardian reassuringly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Sunrise, at the latest.” The Cardinal bowed deeply before his king and opened the door for the pair.

 

He watched them turn around the corner of the street, only lit by the full moon, and went back into the centre of the room, picking up his coat. He had some transit visas to obtain.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Anne came downstairs when he was just about to finish with the club’s accounting. She looked over his shoulder, humming in appraisal.

 

“You can afford to keep the _Garrison_ closed for three or four weeks if those numbers are accurate.” The Captain closed the book, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He hated paperwork.

 

“I hope that won’t be necessary. I’ll keep you all on salary in the meantime. You deserve it.”

 

“The boys will be glad to hear that,” she smiled warmly. “I don’t know how but somehow they all end up blank at the end of the day.” Treville grinned at her words. He was probably one of the best-paying employers in Casablanca but all of his employees seemed to be unable to get a grip on the concept of money and savings. He finally put away the book, turning around to face his long-time companion.

 

“What’re you doing, all dressed up like this.”

 

“There’s a gathering, of some of the French refugees. Because of, you know…” She trailed off, watching him carefully.

 

“Louis, yeah. I don’t need to hear more about it. The less I know the better. Enjoy it, but be careful. The streets are dark at night.”

 

He made his way over to the stairs leading up to his private apartment while Anne silently slipped out of the side entrance. He didn’t worry too much about her.

 

Casablanca was too enamoured by the Queen of the Night to harm her seriously and there was still The Spaniard looking out for her. It also wasn’t the first time he met her slipping out to visit one of the gatherings. He was glad she felt that comfortable in Casablanca, that much at home.

 

 

 

The moon illuminated his room beautifully, and he opened the window to let the cooler nightly air replace the residing stiff heat. With a deep, satisfied groan Treville put away his coat and slipped out of the shirt he wore below. After yesterday’s late night drinking he looked forward to getting a little more sleep today.

 

Before he reached his bed, though, his soldier-senses picked up an ill-fitting noise and the old captain twirled around, flawlessly falling into a technically superb fist-fighting stance.

 

He found himself faced with the Cardinal, still in the same black robes he had worn that evening in the club, a comical, shocked expression on his face while he stared at his half-naked former lover. He lowered his fists, relaxing again.

 

“Didn’t expect your visit tonight. Why aren’t you at that gathering with Louis?”

 

“Jean, I –“

 

“Oh, we’re back in Paris now, are we? I’m Jean, you’re Armand and you sneaked into my humble quarters at night again, climbing in through the window so no one will know you’re here. Like in the old times, eh? Won’t you sit down?” His voice was cold, without the amusement his words might have promised.

 

“Jean, _please_!” Richelieu stepped closer, staring into the eyes of Treville. His hands, stretched out in an open, pleading gesture, were trembling. “I need those letters of transit. Ask any price you want, but _please_ , give me those letters.”

 

The Captain raised his head in defiance.

 

“No.”

 

“Without them Louis is going to die in Casablanca!” The trembling took over the rest of the Cardinal’s body.

 

“So what?” Treville turned away, walking over to his small, private wine cabinet. He wasn’t interested in having this conversation without a drink. Or two. “I’m goin’ to die here, too. It’s a good place to die.”

 

“He is _your rightful king_!” Richelieu’s voice had gotten louder, more desperate. Angry. Upset. It was the first time Treville could recall the older man actually raising his voice during an argument.

 

He scoffed, turned around again and growled: “ _My_ king _died_  three years ago, killed by highwayman paid in Spanish gold!”

 

The Cardinal took a step back, looking aghast. “I know how you feel about me, but I thought you were less of a coward than to _project_ all of your anger on _innocent_ bystanders! Why are you punishing Louis – why are you punishing _France_ – for your own hurt feelings?! Where is the man who was ready to die in the service of France?!”

 

Treville took a step forward, following the slowly retreating politician. “He was left standing in the rain at the Parisian train station, without a king, without a country, without anything he loved. Without anything he could still fight for. And so he built himself something new, something of his own that he deemed worth fighting for. Now he’s not fighting for anything anymore _except himself_.”

 

“Jean, if you knew what really happened, that day in Paris –“

 

“I wouldn’t believe you. I know you and your _games_ , I’ve watched them for more than half a decade. You refused to tell me when you were visiting Ninon. You’re smart enough to have already guessed or at least anticipated at that point that it was possible for me to be the new owner of the visas. So why tell me now except to give me what I want to hear and leave the field as the victor once again, huh?” By the end of his little speech their faces were only inches apart, his voice reduced to an angry hiss.

 

Treville turned away after a moment, sighing soundlessly and tiredly ruffling his hair. He was on his way over to the cabinet to finally get his now well-deserved drink when he heard the well-known _click_ of a just released gun. Old instincts kicking in he nearly _felt_ the world slowing down around him. The Captain bowed his head, one hand on the cabinet’s board. And he waited. Two seconds. Five.

 

“Give me the letters, Captain.” Even his voice was trembling now. Treville couldn’t suppress a sneer.

 

“If I didn’t give them to your silver tongued talking, _Cardinal_ , what makes you think I will hand them out to you at gunpoint?” He swung around and crossed the distance between them in two fast steps, pressing the middle of his chest against the tip of the gun – one of his own, he realised. He must have left it lying around again. The trembling was palpable now, reverberating through the fast warming metal.

 

“Shoot,” he encouraged the taller man, voice dangerously low, eyes challenging. “What is a little more blood on your hands to save your king and country, hmm?”

 

“Jean –“ Richelieu took one step back. Treville followed him.

 

“Does it suddenly make a difference for you that you have to kill me with your own hands instead of a whispered word or signed letter?” Another step. The former First Minister opened his mouth, helplessly.

 

“If you want those letters so badly, you _have_ to shoot me.” They were nearly touching the wall by now. Tears were gathering in the Cardinal’s lashes, threatening to break loose.

 

“Go on. You made your choice a long time ago. It’s about time for you to finish it, don’t you think?” Richelieu’s back hit the wall with a dull _thud_. The trembling had increased to a violent shaking. Treville pressed his hands against the smooth stone on both sides of the Cardinal’s head, trapping him effectively. He leaned in closer, until he could feel the erratic breath of his visitor brushing against his face. The Minister’s eyes were closer to a storm than he had ever seen before, grey and dark and wild and swirling with uncontrolled emotions.

 

“Shoot me,” he whispered. The gun fell down on the floor, unused.

 

Richelieu whimpered.

 

They hadn’t been this close in years. He felt the heat radiating off his counterpart, moving in even closer, into the space no longer occupied by the weapon. Their chests touched, drawn to each other like moths to the flame and –

 

“You’re aroused,” Treville growled, more surprised than angry.

 

“I always am around you,” he answered, without a tone of flirtatiousness in it. He sounded tired, instead. Exasperated. Accusatory. Old.

 

“I thought I would never see you again. After you left Paris, I tried everything to forget you, to get over you.” A trembling hand touched the Captain’s cheek, caressing it softly, reverently. “But I couldn’t. And I think I am still unable to get away from you.” He leaned his head back against the stone, eyes closed yet mouth still slightly opened. A single tear ran down his haunt features while the hand on Treville’s cheek trailed off, down to his naked chest. He looked beautiful. Exposed, hopeless and trapped, he still looked beautiful to him.

 

The Captain took one hand off the wall and carefully wiped the tear away. Richelieu’s eyes snapped open again, staring at him, vulnerable and pleading. Full of fear. Full of longing. Full of hunger.

 

“Oh, screw it,” the old guardsman finally murmured, burying his other hand in the silvery curls and closing the final gap between them, pressing their lips together while Armand’s body melted against his. The trembling stopped at last.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Richelieu sleepily blinked himself awake. He felt warm and comfortable and relaxed and safe and –

 

Wrong. It was wrong. He couldn’t be safe. He hadn’t been safe for months, now. And he knew he still wasn’t. He was still on the run, he was sure about that. Yet it was the first time since he had left Paris together with Louis that the place he found himself in smelled like something resembling _home_.

 

His disoriented gaze trailed around the room, finally finding and focussing the muscular, scarred back of Treville.

 

He stood at the window, stark naked, gazing out into the nightly city. The moon was shining brightly, bathing him in his silver light. He looked like a marble statue of old, Michelangelo, maybe.

 

The Cardinal sat up, ruffling his mussed up curls. The cover, hiding his equally undressed body from the cool night air, slid down. He shivered.

 

Leaving the linen on his resting place he padded over to the younger man, carefully engulfing him from behind. The Captain’s body radiated heat and calm, peaceful comfort. He didn’t try to send him away, but instead turned his head in Richelieu’s direction, and gestured to the table.

 

“There’s wine there, if you want. 1932 Lascombes.”

 

“That’s the year –“

 

“Yes, I know. Kept it for special occasions. T’was a good year, for wine.”

 

“Not only for wine, I think.” He pressed an open-mouthed, soft kiss on Treville’s shoulder and headed towards the offered drink, his steps like a soundless dance. He felt good. A little sore and he was sure to feel a few muscles over the next couple of days that hadn’t been in use for years, but he really, _truly_ felt good.

 

Tension stacking up over weeks, months on the run, the constant fear of Louis’ life and his own, the hopelessness burning somewhere in a deep pit of his stomach. All the little horrors and trepidations he tried to shield his king from.

 

Gone.

 

It made him feel lightheaded, nearly floating.

 

With a relaxed sigh he sank down into the soft cushions of the settee and filled two glasses of the Bordeaux.

 

“Where do we stand now, Jean?” he asked after a moment, thoughtfully swirling the dark red liquid around before taking a sip. He let his head loll back with a delightful sigh and found Treville’s gaze focussed on him when he looked up again.

 

The Captain was smiling, an honest, amused smile that put lots of tiny wrinkles all around his eyes.

 

“You still owe me a story, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

Richelieu frowned, unhappily. “Does it really have to be this? I don’t like thinking back to that day. And neither do you.”

 

“ _Please_ , Armand.” The older man relished the sound of his name coming from Treville. He closed his eyes for a moment, nodding softly, more in reassurance to himself than to the Captain.

 

“Louis’ death was a fraud, actuated by Marie de Medici,” the Cardinal started softly. “Do you remember what that guardsman told you when they had found the massacre left of the men travelling with the king? The alleged body of him?”

 

“He said his face had been smashed beyond – Oh.“

 

“Yes, exactly.” He took a sip of the fine brew, staring at Treville who was still leaning against the window frame, no longer gazing out but answering his searching, open look. “They had killed some poor peasant who looked similar enough in height, statue and hair to replace the real king, kidnapping him and hiding him in the woods near Le Havre.”

 

“So the Queen was unable to kill her own flesh and blood after all.” Richelieu snorted, a hard, unamused noise.

 

“She hadn’t been able to do so before. Why should that change, all of a sudden?”

 

“Because Philippe was her firstborn,” the Captain quietly commented. “And back then she didn’t know her hunger for power would get her exiled from court one day.”

 

“She’s still a mother.”

 

“You say it like it’s a bad thing. It was probably the only thing stopping her from regicide.”

 

“She wanted to ship him off to the south of Africa, Ivory Coast maybe. How is that any better?”

 

Treville finally came over, sitting down next to the Cardinal and forcefully turning his head with a steady hand. “Because,” he growled, focussing him with intensity, “as long as there is life, there is hope. Go on now.”

 

Richelieu’s lips had parted with anticipation before he was able to get himself under control again. He blushed slightly when the Captain took his hand away and more profusely after the satisfied smirk he got when the younger man realised the former Minister’s reaction to his gesture.

 

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat.

 

“Asshole.”

 

The smirk widened.

 

They spend another moment in silence, only relishing the warmth their counterpart’s body was offering. With a quiet sigh the Cardinal turned away again, picking up the forgotten glass on the table.

 

“It was about three or four hours before your train to Marseilles left when a message of one of the priest of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre reached me, telling me that a blacksmith had confessed of knowing the true nature of Louis’ _disappearance_.” Treville idly started to play with his silvery curls, listening intently. Richelieu closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

 

“That blacksmith was the brother of one of the highwaymen who held Louis prisoner. He said he’d known of this plan all along, never approving of it but the men gave him enough gold to buy his silence. He handed himself in to the church when he got the message that they had _finally_ found a ship to carry him off.” Even with his eyes closed and features relaxed he still sounded angry.

 

The Captain moved closer, in reaction to the spreading tension, snuggling up behind him. The hand playing with his hair found a new place around his narrow waist while Treville burrowed his face in the bony crook of his neck. His beard tickled the sensitive skin there and Richelieu just about prevented the escape of a blissful sigh from his traitorous body.

 

“By then I didn’t know if the man was speaking the truth or lying. And I couldn’t risk putting your life at stake to go running after something that very well might have been just another fraud. Because if it had been, you’d never have made it out of France in time and de Medici would have captured and killed you. I couldn’t risk that.” He opened his eyes, finding those dark pools of blue watching him coolly but without judging him. He calmed down, only a little, only enough not to start trembling in the Captain’s arms and continued, weakly: “I just… couldn’t.”

 

“But it wasn’t a fraud.”

 

“No, it wasn’t. I drove out with my Red Guards before the sun rose, with the full intention of sending you a letter, a note, anything if I were successful. And when I came back to Paris four days later, in triumph, my king safe and sound by my side, my spies told me they had seen you leave with _that Spanish beauty_ , not only in Paris but also in Marseilles. That you hadn’t left her side since you stepped into the train to down the coast.” He swallowed, nervously wetting his lips.

 

Treville froze. “Tell me you didn’t.”

 

The Cardinal tried to scramble away, out of the Captain’s arms. His grip hardened.

 

“Jean, I –“

 

“You refused to contact me because of some _fucking jealousy_?!” He finally let go of Richelieu for a moment, only to effectively pin him down on the couch a second later, after the older man hastily moved away, a lot more vulnerable in this new position. “You _immature pillock_!” His eyes were an icy storm by now, blue and raging and so, so angry.

 

“We had been lovers for _five years_ , for god’s sake! And the second _you_ send _me_ away without even a goodbye after _promising_ me to come with me to America you think I just go and take a new _fucking lover_?! My world was falling apart, I didn’t have anything left _at all_ and _you_ felt like the wronged party!? Did it never come to your oh-so-brilliant mind that I might have been looking for some comfort because _that Spanish beauty_ had seen me breaking down because you _weren’t there_?! Have I been this vague with my love for you?”

 

He stood up, starting to pace around the room.

 

“ _Five years_ , Armand!” He stopped, staring at the former Minister. His eyes were wild.

 

Richelieu rose as well, slowly stepping closer to the other man.

 

“I was never really sure if –“

 

He never got to finish the sentence. Treville grabbed him roughly, one hand closing vicelike around his biceps, the other buried in his curls. He crushed their lips together hungrily, pulling their bodies flush against each other. The Cardinal felt dizzy when he finally broke away, gasping for air, while the Captain just continued his way down, licking, kissing, biting, _marking_ his throat and collarbone, attacking the pale, sensitive skin there. Richelieu could only moan helplessly, his hips bucking forward for that wonderful friction, earning a deep, aggressive, _possessive_ growl of his lover.

 

“Jean,” he whimpered, intent to continue talking, when the sound of slammed door and squealing tyres drove them apart.

 

Both men were breathing heavily, but it was Treville who rumbled: “Get dressed, fast,” while he was already searching for his pants in their scattered clothing.

 

He waited until Richelieu was more-or-less presentable once again, having donned his robes as fast as possible, before the Captain opened the door and looked out down to the bar, checking who had decided to occupy his club this late in the night.

 

Only a few moments later he turned back, looking worried.

 

“It’s Louis, with Anne and one of my boys. You should leave, now.” Treville hesitated for a moment before stepping closer one last time, kissing him softly, lovingly. The Cardinal nearly melted in his embrace, his hands curling against the still naked chest.

 

“You will find your way back, I assume,” the Captain asked after they had separated again, far too soon. Only his hand still lingered on Richelieu’s cheek, as if he dreaded their parting as much as Richelieu did.

 

“I will.” And as he watched Treville leaving the room he felt the cold creeping back again, as if all the warmth had followed the younger man out of his apartment.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“What happened?” a dark voice growled behind them.

 

Louis nearly jumped in surprise; especially this short after the police had interrupted their gathering. But his two companions – the lovely Anne and Porthos the Giant – didn’t even look up. The singer was still searching for a little cloth to clean the few scratches the trio had earned on their run while Porthos filled them all a glass of red.

 

“We’ve been betrayed, Sir. Police interrupted us,” the doorkeeper answered.

 

“Hm. Go check if d’Artagnan turned off the light at the back entrance. Don’t want any unnecessary attention. And then go home, I’ll take it from here.”

 

The Captain came down the stairs and walked over to the counter where Louis was sitting. At the soft sound of naked feet padding over the floor, he turned around, having himself completely under control again after the jump-scare moment his arrival had awoken.

 

“Captain,” he greeted the older man friendly, taking in the _unusual_  attire of his counterpart. Naked from the waist up, hair tousled and in disarray, like he had been disturbed by the three of them in his sleep. It was the first time Louis was actually able to just _look_ at the man.

 

His chest was covered in scars, one or two of them looking more than a little gruesome. For his age – he guessed him to be in his early forty’s, maybe a little older – in a very good shape, well-trained and muscular, still radiating that nervous, restless energy he had seen in so many other good soldiers. If the former king studied him like this he could easily imagine why his First Minister had fallen for the other man. He was beautiful, the same way a lion or a wild tiger was.

 

Anne came back, a damp cloth in her hand. She watched Treville half expectant and half – _what_? Louis wasn’t sure. It could have been disapproval. The Captain snatched the rag away, staring at her challengingly. Neither of them moved for the better part of a minute, until her eyes turned to slits and she glided away, head held high, like she was born to be a queen.

 

 

 

As soon as she was out of sight, the club owner slowly and meticulously started to wipe away the grime that had gathered on the noble during their escape, making him feel like a small boy all over again.

 

“I’m fine,” he murmured, shifting in his seat when Treville made no intentions to stop his administrations.

 

“No, you’re not.” The older man sounded gruff, yet kind. “You’re scared and tired and at your wits end. Now stop fidgeting and let me get that mess cleaned up.”

 

The former king complied without any further remark. It felt too nice to have someone else looking after his needs after all these weeks on the run. Adapting to the life outside of his royal chambers had been one of the hardest things he ever had to do. Never before had there been a time where he didn’t have at least one valet at his side. Maybe he’d never have one again. He shuddered at the thought, leaning into the caressing hand like a neglected cat.

 

“Armand told me.” The Captain froze. “About you being the commander of my palace guard, I mean.” The administrations were picked up again, slowly, haltingly. Louis knew he was clean again by now, but he relished that Treville didn’t seem to have any real intention of just moving away. It gave him the feeling of being… protected.

 

Carefully, just to test it, he rested his body against the broad and still naked chest of Treville. Something he hadn’t even been able to do with his own mother. It was weird, up until a moment later when the arm not holding the cloth curled around the young man, hugging him closer. The other arm joined shortly afterwards, dropping the rag on the counter. The noble nearly melted in this embrace.

 

“I accepted that you won’t give me the visas,” he started after a while, half-lulled to sleep by the rhythmical up and down originating from Treville’s breathing. “But can I ask you a favour? If you won’t give them to me, can you give them to Armand? Get him out and- and go with him?” The breathing stopped, only to be exhaled in a long sigh a few seconds later. The Captain moved away, settling down on the chair next to the king.

 

Louis sat up, looking at the other man seriously.

 

“Since the first evening here in Casablanca I knew that there had been something between the two of you back in Paris. Armand basically confirmed that, earlier tonight.”

 

“He’d never agree to leave you. He’d never be _able_ to leave you.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that? I have known him all my life. He was more of a father to me than my real parents ever were. But he is sacrificing his own happiness for me and I just can’t – I can’t _bear_ it anymore. I don’t _want_ to be the only thing he ever lived for, especially not when there is someone like you around. You make him happy, Treville, while I don’t even know if I’ll wake up to see the next morning.”

 

A bitter laugh escaped the young man. He furiously tried to wipe away the tears gathering in his eyes. “Every night when I go to sleep I wonder if I’ll be able to see the sun rise again. I meet my people and see them getting fewer and fewer. People already talk about me as if I were a legend, a myth, a _dream_.

 

“And all this time Armand never left my side. He got me out of the Bastille, brought me down to Marseilles and finally here to Casablanca. And I think this is where it will end. There is no way out for us – for _me_ this time. And I want to be able to go while knowing that he won’t be alone after I’m not there anymore. I want him to have someone at his side to catch him, to hold him, to- to _stop_ him. I want to know that I leave him with a way to find _happiness_ in his life. Because he is the only man I know who really, truly deserves to find some peace, somewhere.” His voice broke, silencing him.

 

A hand settled on his shoulder, strong and supporting and calming.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, “It’s just –“

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“It really isn’t.” He sighed softly. The doors banged open. Four, five policemen came in in full combat armour. Louis closed his eyes in defeat.

 

“Monsieur Bourbon, please come with us. We have a warrant for you.” He got up without any resistance, turning around to look at the Captain just before he left: “There’s a niece of Armand somewhere in America, Marie Madelaine De Combalet. When I- If I should not be able to make it, can you take him there? Please?”

 

He couldn’t wait for a confirming nod before the guardsmen took him away.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Louis hadn’t come back again.

 

 The Cardinal had waited for maybe an hour for the return of his king, until he finally felt like the walls of the dark room were coming closer and closer, forcing him to flee into the night.

 

There was nearly no one on the streets anymore, this long after curfew. He wandered around, aimlessly, trying and failing to get his whirling thoughts under control again. The shadows and his dark coat hid him from the one or two police patrols he saw, taking him safely out of the city and down to the sea.

 

Suddenly, like awaking from a strange dream, he had found himself confronted with the deep, growling ocean, waves lazily licking at the sand. The salty air finally cleared his head enough to allow him a few calming breaths, stopping the slight tremor in his hands.

 

Louis was gone.

 

Richelieu closed his eyes, tears threatening. The wind, a soft, warm breeze, rustled the seam of his coat around him, spreading it’s comforting presence from behind him, hugging him into his cloak. He swallowed, bowing his head. He felt lost. Without Louis to take care of, Louis to look after, Louis to keep save, there was nothing left to hold him together.

 

His hand reached for the golden cross he carried around his neck at all times, searching for the support of the familiar pendant only to find the spot empty.

 

The Priest raised his head against the moon, descending into the sea, blinking and willing away the gathering dampness. Psalm 22 came to his mind – _My God,_ _my God, why have you forsaken me?_ – and he felt foolish for comparing his situation to the Saviour’s, carrying the burden of all mankind.

 

The night was still clear, even this close to morning. The wind tasted of sand and dust and the desert, ancient and dry. His mind wandered, to the parting with Jean, Treville’s unreadable gaze when he had turned away, heading to the king.

 

Three years ago the Cardinal had been absolutely sure that his Captain would take care of their… _dilemma_ , and get Louis to safety. Now he didn’t know anymore. The man he had met in the _Garrison_ was nearly a stranger to him. He wasn’t able to understand his motivations anymore, his plans, his decisions. The cruel, ice-blue eyes still burned in Richelieu’s memory, making him shiver.

 

 

 

“Fig, Sire?” a soft tenor to his left asked. He whirled around, surprised and shocked that he hadn’t even realised someone had joined him while he had gazed out into the water, the silver and black surge licking at the shimmering sand.

 

The old Frenchman knew that he’d probably been dead by now if his new companion had been of the police or worse, of Rochefort’s Red Guards. He willed away the trembling, induced by the sudden adrenaline rush. That boy didn’t look like a thread, not with his hand outstretched, offering the deep-purplish fruit.

 

“They’re very fresh, Monsieur, I guarantee you.” The young Berber smiled, the tip of his tongue sticking out through a gap in his teeth. Ebony curls were falling into his face, half-hiding dark, intelligent eyes. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, thirteen years of age.

 

“There’s only two of them remaining, leftovers from the market. And you seemed lonely, M’sieur.” His French was nearly accent free, despite his obvious Moroccan heritage.

 

Carefully, still flustered by the sudden appearance of the boy, he reached for the fruit. The ripe fig felt heavy in his hands, and he stared at it for a long moment. His visitor was watching him curiously. Hesitantly he put the fruit to his lips, tasting the skin first before Richelieu sank his teeth into the gift. Sweet juice exploded in his mouth, and he closed his eyes in silent bliss.

 

When he realised that he couldn’t even remember the last time he had eaten one – _before Jean had left him. He hadn’t been able to touch them afterwards anymore –_ the tears finally won, mixing their salty taste into the sweet, sun-kissed flavour of the fruit.

 

“ _Kahin_?” the boy, having also taken a small bite of his fig, asked softly, “Are you all right? Is the fruit not good?”

 

“No,” the Cardinal whispered in response, his voice breaking. “The fig is wonderful. It’s just –“ He stopped, mid-sentence, staring out onto the water and into the moon. Taking another bite of the treat, letting his lips linger to lick away all of the sweet juice.

 

“My life is a fucked-up mess right now,” he continued finally, not looking at his side where he could feel the dark eyes burning with sympathy and curiosity. “I am a wanted fugitive of France, travelling with its former king and stranded here in Casablanca for an indefinite amount of time. And the only person who could help us is my former lover whom I thought I would never see again.” He sighed tiredly.

 

“You didn’t part in a good way, then?” The young Berber asked, his voice soft.

 

“No, we did not.” A dry laugh escaped Richelieu, a disbelieving sound that had send courtiers crying on the marble before him, in another life, another time. “We _most definitely_ did not.”

 

The cold blazing eyes of Treville when he had visited him last night – _had it only been last night? It felt like an eternity had passed since he’d put his foot into the cursed city_ – radiating sadness and furious, burning anger. The accusatory stare, the insecurity masked with indifference. He had left Treville, had let him leave against both their wills, in a way he wasn’t even able to be upset at the Captains behaviour. But there had still been something of that old –

 

“Yet you still expected her to help?” Torn out of his swivelling mind it took a moment for the Cardinal to gather his thoughts.

 

Still distracted, he answered honestly: “I didn’t know what to expect. And- and he had never before refused to do so.”

 

The boy blinked at him, confused. Impressed, maybe. A little fascinated. A grin lightened up his face, brightening up his almond eyes.

 

“You loved _him_ a lot, didn’t you?” The kid looked giddy, surprised but positively so.

 

Richelieu realised he had just offered that boy information about himself every courtier; if not even every citizen of France would be ready to kill for. The great Red Snake of the Louvres, secretly yearning for the comfort of a male lover. Secretly getting the comfort of a male lover. But it wasn’t any man. Jean wasn’t ordinary, not in any way known to mankind.

 

“I did,” he offered silently. And after another moment, he added: “I do. He – he was one of the best men I ever knew.”

 

“He isn’t anymore?” His companion looked confused and disappointed, the unhappy frown nearly hidden below the wild curls.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, nowadays. I just – I feel incredibly useless, helpless.” Quietly, the older man’s voice reduced to a whisper now while he kept his eyes glued to the silver silhouette of the moon on the water, he mumbled: “Worthless.”

 

Richelieu finally looked down, swallowing back a fresh rush of tears, and nibbled at the fig.

 

“I think he sold out my king.” His voice was hoarse when he admitted the terrible notion.

 

He knew it was this thought that had burned away in his soul for the past few hours, after leaving Louis with Treville and his protégé not returning to the hotel. But saying it out loud still felt like tearing himself apart. It felt like he was betraying not only Treville but also himself and Louis, like losing France all over again. Because he’d always associated Treville’s name with honour. Just thinking about this possible treachery of something he had taken as granted for far too long made him feel physically sick.

 

He didn’t want to think of Treville as the man who had signed Louis’ final fate. He couldn’t. But he was also unable to get the picture of the younger man out of his head now, earlier that night, in the dark of his apartment. _My king died three years ago_. His eyes cold and distant.

 

Before the boy could ask any more questions, the Cardinal raised the nearly-finished rest of the fruit, tilting his head into the kid’s direction in thanks.

 

“Jean used to bring me a few figs, every now and then,” he started, a wistful smile tugging up the corners of his mouth. “They are quite hard to come by, in Paris.”

 

He wasn’t able to add any other embarrassing comment before the young Berber had wrapped his arms around the sovereign figure, burying his head in the soft texture of his coat. He pressed himself against the other man with surprising force, hugging him closer until Richelieu could feel the heat radiating of his companion through the many layers of his ecclesial robes.

 

Carefully, awkwardly, he returned the gesture one-armed, his hand absent-mindedly caressing the dark curls. He had never learned how to handle those sudden, seemingly random outbursts of children; he never had the chance to. He might have been able to finally observe them, with Charlotte and the unborn heir, if Gaston hadn’t decided to make his appearance, or at least if he had done so without Rochefort by his side.

 

“I hope your Jean will make the right decision, _kahin_ ,” the boy stated, his voice muffled by the fabric he had hid his face in.

 

“I hope so too, kid,” the Cardinal answered and, more to himself than to his nightly companion, again: “I hope so, too.” He closed his eyes, relishing the Berber’s presence.

 

They stood there like this for a long while, their figures only bathed in the dying light of the moon. Somewhere in between Richelieu had finished his fig and turned more into the hug, putting both his arms around the lanky frame.

 

“I have to get back now, _kahin_ ,” his companion mumbled finally, gently pulling away. He didn’t seem to expect another response of the older man and just started to trot away, without another word, when the Cardinal’s hand on his shoulder made him stop once more.

 

“Thank you,” the former Minister said, his voice raw and emotional, “For everything.”

 

He hesitated for another moment, before uttering: “God bless you.”

 

The boy’s answering smile felt like the first ray of sunshine after a long, dark winter night.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“Treville. How unusual of you to visit me at this time. And in this place. How did I deserve such honour?”

 

“You have nothing in your hand against the Bourbon. The worst you could give him is a fine and a couple of days. You know that.” Captain de la Fère raised his head, looking at his morning visitor with a sharp, searching gaze. Treville’s face was unreadable.

 

“Yes, I know that. What about it? Did you suddenly find the hidden royalist in you who tells you to try and set him free?”

 

“What makes you think I’d stick my head out for Louis?”

 

“Oh, plenty of reasons. First, you bet 10.000 francs that he would escape.”

 

The other captain actually looked surprised, as if he had already forgotten about their little gamble.

 

“Second, you have the letters of transit. Don’t bother to deny it, probably everyone knows by now – or at least suspects. And if you won’t do it out of honour – which would certainly fit your record – you will appreciate being able to settle down with the money the Bourbon will give you. Or the Cardinal, in this case. Maybe you’ll just do it because you don’t like Rochefort’s looks. Or his everything. Which _I_ could totally understand.”

 

Treville looked down at his hands on the desk and grinned wolfishly. “You thought a lot about that, didn’t you? They are all excellent reasons. But no, I don’t want to help Louis.” His face turned serious again. “I intent on using the letters myself. I’m leaving Casablanca on tonight’s last plane. With one of Ninon’s girls.”

 

Athos stared at his counterpart for a long moment, stunned.

 

“You are _leaving_ Casablanca? _Why_?”

 

“When I first came to Casablanca I only wanted to escape France. But the last few days have shown me that… My old life may have caught up to me. And I want to leave that part behind. For real, this time. I have absolutely no use of the former king and the Red Snake on the other side of that ocean. They would only get in my way. Again,” he answered earnestly.

 

The older Captain looked incredibly serious.

 

They kept silent while Athos tried to comprehend this new information. Subdued, already feeling melancholic, he asked: “And what about Anne?”

 

“She’s happy here, with Aramis. She found peace and a home. I will not take that away from her. She deserves it.”

 

“Does she know about your leaving?”

 

“She knows about my history at court. And my… strained relationship with Richelieu. She’s probably suspected by now what I’m planning to do. I will talk to her later.”

 

De la Fère started to play with one of the pens, not feeling comfortable looking at the other man. For the last three years Treville had been a force he could count on. He had always felt like he knew where the _Garrison‘s_ Captain stood. He had known that – whatever happened – Treville would behave in an honourable manner. It had made his job as captain of the city watch a lot easier. There was a reason for the _Garrison’s_ wide audience.

 

“Why one of Ninon’s girls? Why not sell the other visa?” he finally continued.

 

Treville only shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? It’s incredibly hard for a woman to travel alone. And Ninon is one of the kindest people I have ever met. There are a few women in _Minerva’s_ who’ll probably never be able to leave the city if not with a special visa like those letters are, for various reasons. It’s the least I can do to repay the Comtesse for her support over the years. But that’s not why I came to talk to you.”

“You want me to set Louis free.”

 

“I want to offer you something serious against him, to get him out of the way. Permanently. And Richelieu right with him.” Athos leaned back in his chair, stunned into silence yet again.

 

“You’re kidding me,” he rasped. Treville’s eyes grew cold, his jaw clenched.

 

“I am not. It’s the other reason why I want to leave Casablanca tonight.”

 

“You want to betray your king and country? To the likes of _Rochefort_ , of all?”

 

“As long as Louis lives and Gaston sits the throne, there will be no peace in France. Nor in any country the Bourbon visits.” His hand started drumming on the desk in a sharp staccato, the rhythm not unlike a soldier’s march.

 

“As long as he lives there will be people standing up to his cause. And if you can’t stop him now, he _will_ find a way out of Casablanca. He _will_ find a way to make it back to France, alive, with an army at his back and the Cardinal by his side. He will start a civil war, with every one of the Great Lords on Gaston’s side, with their soldiers and their mercenaries, and the common people fighting for Louis. The country will bleed and hunger and _die_ and it will be brother against brother and father against son. It will be that much worse than the bloody war in the States because it’s the war of a nation, oppressed by its lords, fighting against their authorities. It will affect the stability of all of Europe, in the very least.” He stopped, speaking and drumming, his eyes far away.

 

After a long, low breath he continued, more quietly this time: “Is it so very bad of me that I want to sacrifice the lives of two men to save a whole country? That I don’t want to see the land that used to be mine go up in flames? Every man I knew has always tried to reduce me to my _honour_. _Fidelis et Fortis_ , they said. But all I ever wanted was a strong France. It just happened to be the best with Louis as its king and Richelieu by his side at that time. But their time has passed, now.”

 

He suddenly focused his eyes on the captain of the city watch, defiance in his gaze.

 

“Yes, I _would_ betray my king and country to prevent this genocide. But if I do, I can’t stay here in Casablanca. The country is home for too many royalists loyal to the Bourbon.”

 

“What do you want me to do?” Athos asked faintly.

 

“Release Louis now and come to the _Garrison_ half an hour before the plane leaves. I’ll have both of them come there to pick up the letters. That’ll give you the legal grounds to make the arrest, doesn’t it?”

 

The captain nodded.

 

“Good. You won’t need any of your watchdogs; I don’t want too many people know about my… my treason. You can handle the Bourbon quite well; I’ll take care of the Cardinal.”

 

“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?” Treville smiled, weakly yet amused.

 

“I could call it on my honour. But if you let me, I’ll just make the arrangements with the Bourbon instead, now, in the visitor’s pen.”

 

De la Fère stood up, his face solemn.

 

“I think I’m going to miss you after you leave Casablanca.” With these words he pressed the button to open the adjacent visitor pen.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“You really want to do this, don’t you?”

 

“I have to, Ninon.”

 

“I wish I could make you change your mind. But I understand.” The Comtesse sighed and took a sip of her coffee. “Thank you for- for being honest with me. And thank you for offering me the _Garrison_. I will take good care of it.”

 

“You’re the only I would – _could_ trust with my club.”

 

He stood up, gathering his cloak.

 

“Oh, and I’ve got an agreement with Anne; she gets twenty-five percent of the profit. It’s as much her home as it has been mine. I want it to stay that way.”

 

“She can have fifty for all I care. She’s definitely worth it. I will make her head of the _Garrison_ when you’re… gone.” The blonde lady rose, looking at the old fighter with soft, solemn eyes. He turned away, breaking the contact.

 

“My boys have to stay, too, of course,” Treville continued, trying to evade the oppressive mood, “The _Garrison_ wouldn’t be the same without them.”

 

“The _Garrison_ won’t be the same either way, without their Captain.” Thankfully, her voice wasn’t accusatory. She just sounded sad. “I won’t disband them, don’t worry. Shall I set up the papers?”

 

“There’s no time for that. A handshake will have to do. You can arrange the rest with Anne.”

 

“Why isn’t she the one taking over? Why me and not her?”

 

 “She refused. Maybe it’s because she’s angry with me leaving,” he shrugged his shoulders, his face hardening, “She said she’s fine with being Queen of the Night. She doesn’t need to stress of running the whole business. Maybe she just wants to have more time with her Spaniard. Who knows?”

 

He fell silent and started to make his way over to the door when Ninon just kept staring at him, without any word falling.

 

Just before he reached the exit and turned around, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Treville, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. He froze, before returning the full-body hug and pulling her closer. Her hair, crowding his face, smelled of cinnamon and coffee, and he felt himself relaxing into the unexpected gesture.

 

“I’m going to miss you, Treville,” she confessed after a moment, turning her head so she could see his face, eyes kind and blue.

 

“Jean. My name is Jean.” She exhaled, burying her head in his broad chest.

 

“Write me when you find the time.” They parted, both reluctant.

 

“Will I see you again, some day?”

 

“Probably not.” The Captain bowed, deeply, and pressed a small kiss on the back of her hand. “Farewell, Ninon.”

 

When he rose again, Treville gave her one of his rare, brilliant smiles before he turned around for the last time, and stepped out into the cafe’s main room.

 

“Farewell, Jean,” she whispered, after he had already disappeared into the crowds outside of her salon.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Athos arrived exactly five minutes earlier than Treville had asked him to come. The Captain still opened after the first knock, greeting the younger man with a curt nod.

 

“The Bourbon and Richelieu should come in about ten minutes. Hide yourself in my office till then.”

 

“Where’s your lady?”

 

“We will meet at the airport.” De la Fère made his way over to the stairs, stopping at their foot.

 

“This place won’t be the same without you, Treville,” he commented quietly, without turning around.

 

“You’re not the only one to say that. But don’t worry. I spoke to Ninon. You’ll still be able to get drunk for free.” The captain of the city watch snorted, half amused, half sad.

 

“Is everything ready?” he asked after another moment of silence, turning his head to watch the club owner.

 

“Yes. I’ve got the letters right here.” Treville patted his coat at the height of his heart. A soft rustling indicated the existence of a hidden pocket on its inside, containing the priceless visa.

 

“Where were they when we searched _Garrison_? You can tell me now; you won’t be here much longer.”

 

“In Anne’s piano.” Athos hummed thoughtfully yet disappeared into the office when a sharp knock on the front door indicated the arrival of the other visitors.

 

 

 

“You’re early,” Treville stated after opening the door for the second time in about as many minutes. “Couldn’t wait to see me again, eh?”

 

Richelieu gave him a cold stare. He looked magnificent in his traditional red cassock, and the air hissed in an old, well-known melody when he swept into the empty main room. Louis followed only a moment after, gifting Treville with an elated smile.

 

“I didn’t want to take any risks. There’s too much that could go wrong on the way to the airport.”

 

The Cardinal was trembling again, only faintly, but the Captain had long been used to recognise all those little signs. He was too pale, his eyes blood-shot like he hadn’t slept all night. Which was likely, considering that Louis had been taken into custody around three in the morning.

 

Their eyes met while Treville was scrutinising his old lover and they stared at each other for a long moment, worry and tiredness in the stormy grey of Richelieu, concern in Treville’s blue ones. The contact broke when Louis softly touched the Captain’s sleeve and said: “I am so glad you finally decided to help us, Treville. It feels good to know you back on our side. We have the money with us and –“

 

“Keep the money, Your Highness. You’re going to need it in America.” He could see the Cardinal relaxing out of the corner of his eyes, his stance a little less aggressive. “You won’t have any problems in Lisbon?”

 

“No,” Richelieu answered for Louis. “Everything is arranged there.”

 

“Good.” The old guardsman reached into his coat, pulling out the envelope containing the visa. “Here are the letters. Blank. You’ll only have to fill in the names.” Louis took the paper with a strange, careful reverence, as if he was still unable to believe how he got this lucky.

 

 

 

“Louis Bourbon, Armand Richelieu, you are under arrest for assisting in the murder of the couriers from whom the letters were stolen.” Captain de la Fère stood at the foot of the stairs, his pistol aimed at the chest of the royal. Louis froze like a deer in the headlights, staring at the other man with disbelieve and despair. Richelieu, white as a sheet now, only had eyes for Treville.

 

“You bloody traitor,” he hissed, his voice deeper than usual, full of silent rage and disappointment. The trembling had increased again, visual even to bystanders, now that he had nothing to occupy his hands with. The former Minister balled them into fists, his eyes never moving away from his old lover.

 

De la Fère stepped forward, looking at the Bourbon. Louis raised his head, standing straight, defiance in his stance yet defeat in his eyes. He looked more regal in this moment of his final defeat than he had during most of his regency.

 

Before the captain of the city watch could reach his target, standing between the two French leaders and Treville now, the latter took out his pistol and pressed it against Athos’ back, at the height of his heart.

 

“Not so fast, Captain,” he growled, his eyes still locked with Richelieu whose expression changed from anger to confusion to a fast hidden flash of hope, only to soften into one of expectant trust. Treville smiled, reassuringly. “You won’t arrest anybody anytime soon.”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” De la Fère was completely still, only the increased grip around his pistol indicating his nervousness.

 

“Yes. Now give me that gun.”

 

Treville felt the other captain tensing before he gulped in defeat, lowering his hands and turning around, offering his weapon with defiance in his eyes.

 

“There has never been a girl, has there? _Call off your watchdogs_ , you said. This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You know what that means.”

 

“I do. We’ll discuss that later. Your car is at the back, I presume?”

 

“It is.”

 

“Good. You’ll drive us to the airport.”

 

Athos complied without another word of complain.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

They reached the airport about fifteen minutes before the scheduled take-off of the plane. A soft, drizzling rain had started falling on their way from the _Garrison_ to the hangars, reminding Treville of another day, another departure.

 

“Tell them to take care of their luggage. His Highness will instruct them what to do with it,” the club owner ordered his hostage who obeyed with a tense nod, walking over to the orderly standing to attention.

 

“Find Monsieur Bourbon’s luggage and put it on the plane.” The orderly saluted and obediently went over to the royal.

 

“This way, Monsieur,” he instructed friendly, taking Louis with him to the place where the taxi driver they had taken to the _Garrison_ must have dropped their belongings.

 

They disappeared in the misty rain in a matter of moments, making Treville worry if the machine would be able to take off at all in this weather. He turned back to de la Fère and Richelieu when the former cleared his throat, questioningly.

 

He took the letters out again, and offered them to the younger man. “You’ll fill in the names. It’ll make it more official.”

 

“You have thought of everything, haven’t you?” Athos grabbed the papers and went over to the desk, looking for a pen.

 

“I’ve learned from the best,” Treville murmured in answer, catching Richelieu’s smirk with a satisfied grin of his own. The Cardinal closed the short distance between them, stroking the Captain’s hand with a feather-light touch.

 

“What will become of you, Jean?” he asked quietly.

 

“I will stay here with de la Fère and make sure that that plane leaves with you two safely on board.” Treville looked down at their touching hands, taking the white one of Richelieu in his in a moment of sudden boldness. The Cardinal’s eyes softened.

 

“And what about us?”

 

“We'll always have Paris.” He squeezed the frail hand, focussing on the sad smile his old lover offered him. “We didn't have it before. We'd… we'd lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.” Their foreheads touched, breath mingling. Richelieu’s other hand sneaked below the coat, seeking the Captain’s warmth. Treville couldn’t bring himself to care that Captain de la Fère was probably watching them.

 

“I wish I could stay with you,” Richelieu murmured after a moment, his low sigh palpable against the Captain’s throat.

 

“We both know you can’t,” he answered. “You’re work is too important to France and to Louis. If you left him now all you ever did for him would be in vain.”

 

“He’d make a great king, in his own right.”

 

“He still depends on your support and council, and you know it. Leave him now and he’ll never make it back to France.” Treville closed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be able to become happy with me. Don’t try to deny it,” he interrupted the older man, his voice soft yet threatening, “You might not regret choosing me over Louis today or tomorrow but soon enough and then for the rest of your life. You were _born_ to serve France, Armand. You won’t ever be able to leave this life truly behind. Not for anything I could offer you.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” Richelieu whispered, his voice close to breaking.

 

The Captain had opened his eyes again, watching a lonely tear wander down his old lover’s cheek.

 

“I’m only an ordinary man,” he started after a moment, choosing his words with great care, “but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people are of little importance in this crazy world.”

 

He opened their joined hands and held his other one above Richelieu’s palm, dropping the familiar golden cross in it.

 

“You forgot this last night in my rooms. I know how important it is to you.” The Cardinal stared at the heavy pendant in quiet disbelieve, having already expected it to be lost or stolen, and slowly raised his gaze to the other man.

 

“Keep it,” he stated calmly, pressing the trinket back into Treville’s hand. “When I’m on that plane you’ll need His support more than I.” Their eyes locked for one brilliant, timeless moment before Louis’ voice interrupted them, both automatically stepping back from each other. “Everything is in order.”

 

The young noble stopped just below the hanger roof and looked between his First Minister and the former Captain of his palace guard, burning questions and badly hidden worry in his eyes. The Cardinal turned away, walking over to Athos to check if the letters were correctly prepared.

 

“We spoke,” Treville assured the royal quietly. “He came to me last night, before you were there. We both decided that this is the right way. He’d never be content with a life at my side. Both of us wouldn’t.” The motors of the plane roared into life, cutting through the drizzling rain like a lion’s growl.

 

“It is time,” the old Captain sighed, throwing a look into the direction of the plane. He turned back to Louis and, with a determined expression, took the king’s right hand in his, slowly getting down on his knee.

 

“I once swore an oath to protect France and its king with my own life, when I joined the _Armée de terre_. I swore it again when your First Minister offered me the post of captain of the royal palace guard, after the war had ended. And I will swear it a third time to you now, as you stand before me without home and without hope. There are still a few officers left in the _Armée_ who haven’t forgotten my name. They _will_ stand up for your cause, when you return to France. I will make sure of this.”

 

“Captain,” the young noble stammered, his eyes big and wet and full of unadulterated adoration.

 

“Your Majesty.” Treville bowed his head, pressing his lips to the king’s hand.

 

“I am glad,” Louis whispered, “to know people like you at my side.” He helped him up, letting go of his hands only very reluctant. A low sigh escaped him when he turned to his First Minister, looking at him expectantly.

 

The Cardinal was focused on the Captain, very obviously touched by his emotional display of loyalty. Treville smiled at him; a small, soft smile, putting wrinkles all around his eyes.

 

“I will see you again when you come back to the Louvre, triumphant.” He moved closer, staring into the stormy eyes of Richelieu. Up close the older man could see the calm acceptance in those blue depths. He barely suppressed a dry sob, knowing, _feeling_ in his heart that he’d never see the other man again.

 

“Goodbye, Jean.” And, nearly choking on his held back tears, he added, full of emphasis: “God bless you.”

 

Treville closed the distance between them with only one step. He took the face of the tall politician in his rough hands to kiss him, desperate and full of hunger. Richelieu moaned in his opened mouth, his body swaying into the Captain, hands burying in the blue coat.

 

Louis was watching them, as was Athos and probably one or two of the orderlies, but none of the two men could bring themselves to _care_.

 

 

 

The uproar of the engines finally broke them apart.

 

“You better hurry. You don’t want to miss that plane.” The soldier’s hands caressed the grey curls one last time before he reluctantly parted from his old lover.

 

“Are you ready, Armand?” The Cardinal nodded faintly and he turned around, falling into step next to his liege. He didn’t look back again.

 

The rain started to hide their departing figures when Captain de la Fère came to stand by his side. He was staring at the two refugees with some kind of yearning in his eyes but he seemed strangely peaceful.

 

“I am glad you finally chose that path,” he admitted after a few moments of silence, the monotone rumbling of the plane the only sound to be heard.

 

“Thanks for helping me out.”

 

“I’d have probably done the same if my actions wouldn’t affect the political relations between France and us.”

 

He cast a glance at the smaller man and continued: “Anyway, I suppose you know this isn't going to be pleasant for either of us. Especially for you. I'll have to arrest you, of course.”

 

“As soon as the plane goes, Athos.”

 

The captain of the city guard grinned, his dark hair falling over his eyes.

 

 

 

The comfortable silence was disturbed by the ugly screeching of a car driving around a corner much faster than it was designed for. A crème-coloured Peugeot 401 Eclipse broke through the soft rain, stopping a few meters before it reached the pair.

 

The light hadn’t been out for more than a second when a deeply enraged Comte de Rochefort climbed out of it, striding over to the two men in the hangar.

 

“What is the meaning of this, Captain?” he hissed at de la Fère. “My spies tell me about Louis leaving the _Garrison_ in the company of the captain of the city guard to drive to the airport mere hours after he had been released from prison – without my consent as I might add?! Where is the little –“ The sound of a gunshot ripped the air apart, swallowed after a moment by the still falling rain.

 

Rochefort stared in quiet disbelieve at his chest where dark red blood was pooling out of a clean wound at the height of his heart, his eyes wandering up and over to Treville who was still holding the smoking weapon in his right hand. His eyes were cold.

 

“A _true_ First Minister’s place is at the side of his king,” he growled darkly, slowly lowering his arm. “And not somewhere in the desert hunting down ghosts of his past.”

 

Rochefort’s knees gave in below him and the blonde noble collapsed on the ground. His eyes were already breaking, unable to focus anymore.

 

 Not another sound left him before he exhaled his final breath, staring at Treville the whole time, his eyes full of hot burning anger.

 

“He didn’t give you enough credit, I’d say,” Athos stated calmly. Another car came around the corner, filled with half a dozen guardsmen. When they spotted their captain they saluted sharply, not even batting an eye at the dead Frenchman.

 

“Comte de Rochefort has been shot,” de la Fère stated calmly, not looking at Treville. “Round up the usual suspects.”

 

The guardsmen scattered off, taking the body with them. The two captains were left alone once again, the pitter-patter of the rain and the droning of the engines the only sound to be heard.

 

Treville’s gaze followed the plane when it finally took off, watching it disappear in the low-hanging clouds. He was already unable to perceive the lights half a minute later, finally letting himself feel the loss the departure of Richelieu had brought him. He started to walk into the direction of the _Garrison_ , closely followed by de la Fère.

 

“It might be a good idea for you to disappear from Casablanca for a while,” Athos commented carefully when even the growling of the engines couldn’t be heard anymore.

 

“I know. I think I’ll go back to France. There’s a lot to do to secure Louis’ throne once again.”

 

They fell quiet, neither really knowing of what to say to the other.

 

Just before their silence got uneasy Athos said, a smile in his voice: “I’d have never taken you for one of _those_ guys. I mean, _Cardinal Richelieu_ , of all people?”

 

The older man snorted amused.

 

“For what kind of man _did_ you take me?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Tall, dark and handsome, maybe?”

 

“You have never seen that man in his youth.”

 

“Still. How does one even _start_ to seduce a Prince of the Church?”

 

“Who said he didn’t seduce me?”

 

“Don’t sell yourself short now, Treville.”

 

The club owner chuckled, relieved. Athos exhaled and grinned, pleased with himself.

 

“You really convinced me with that show this morning, your speech about the civil war in France I mean.” His voice was light but the answer of his companion not as much.

 

“Believe me, that wasn’t completely out of the blue. There _will be_ a civil war when Louis tries to come back.” A little quieter yet full of determination he continued: “But as long as there are a few good and loyal soldiers in the _Armèe_ even Gaston won’t have a chance. The mercenaries of the Grands are of no match against France’s armed forces.”

 

“So you just embezzled the facts a little to your liking, huh?”

 

“Maybe.” The rain slowly started to die down again, fog now thickening the air around them. The air felt clean and fresh, as if the whole city was ready for a new start.

 

“Will I see you again?” Athos asked, banning all emotion from his voice.

 

“Stand ready for my call and you will. To know Morocco as an ally by our side would take a great burden away from me.”

 

“Charmer.”

 

“Will you do it?” Treville stopped and looked at the other captain inquiringly.

 

“I can’t promise it. I am only the captain of the city guard, no one really important, after all. But I will try, you can be sure of that.”

 

“Thank you.” The silence was stretching again, like a lazy cat yet without its malice. It just felt comfortable, maybe even a little nostalgic.

 

“Treville?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“If you deem France a cause worth fighting for, so will I.” Athos stood a little straighter, his head raised. Treville’s eyes formed slits, his sharp gaze questioning.

 

“Is that an assurance?” he asked after a while, obviously unable to find anything dubious.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good.” And the old captain smiled his soft smile at him while the sky slowly started to clear up again. Soon the moon would rise out of the desert, bathing the sleeping city in his ethereal light.

 

It was a night to be remembered.

 

 

 

_**Fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

>  **Cast**  
>  _Main Characters_  
>  Rick Blaine - Jean „The Captain“ Treville  
> Ilsa Lund - Cardinal Armand du Peyrer, Duc de Richelieu  
> Victor Laszlo - Louis XIII, the "Last Bourbon"
> 
>  _Major Characters_  
>  Captain Louis Renault - Captain Athos de la Fère of the City Watch  
> Major Heinrich Strasser - Comte de Rochefort  
> Signor Ferrari - Comtesse Ninon de Larroque  
> Signor Ugarte - Emile Bonnaire
> 
>  _Minor Characters_  
>  Col. Heinz - Captain Labarge of the Red Guard  
> Sam - Queen Anne of Austria  
> Sascha (The Bartender) - d’Artagnan  
> Carl (The Waiter) - Constance  
> Emil (The Croupier) - Aramis "The Spaniard"  
> Abdul (The Doorman ) - Porthos "The Giant"  
> Yvonne - Milady de Winter  
> Berger, Resistance Contact - Marquis Jean de Toiras
> 
>  _Additional Characters_  
>  Charlotte Mellendorf, wife of Louis XIII  
> Marie de Medici, exiled Treville and nearly succeeded in taking the French throne from her son.  
> Gaston, now-King of France, younger brother of Louis  
> Marie Madelaine De Combalet, Duchesse d’Aiguillon, niece of Richelieu and the aim of Louis and Richelieu
> 
>  
> 
> **Songs**  
>  _Part I_  
> [Shine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQassj5mXRs)  
> [Knock on Wood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZWCSEoBpCw)  
> [Pinch Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Sk0QhoQ164)  
> [Tango de la Rosa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfdHZ-R-oU4)
> 
>  
> 
> _Part II_  
> [Perfidia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeDIjHLqvHg)  
> [Three o'clock in the Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81cG10yNV5c)  
> [Le Retour des Princes français à Paris](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p11prSplr8w)
> 
>  
> 
> If you made it all the way through this, come find me on Tumblr [@lustigs-maerchenland](https://lustigs-maerchenland.tumblr.com/)!


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